


Too Late to Love You

by hartstrings



Series: A Kind of Blindness [3]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: AWOL Courier, Angst and Feels, Boone Goes to Therapy, Canonical Character Death, F/F, F/M, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, NCR ending, POV Craig Boone, Post-Canon, Reunion Tour 2285, Sierra Madre Field Trip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 51,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22891318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hartstrings/pseuds/hartstrings
Summary: A two year tour wiping out the rest of the Legion wrecks hell on the mind. Due to declining performance and deteriorating mental state, Boone finds himself on the steps of a Followers of the Apocalypse clinic with two options: he can try to put his mind back together, or he can find himself a new vocation.With the Courier gone for good, it's harder than he'd ever thought possible.(Part of a series, but can be read standalone)
Relationships: Christine Royce/Veronica Santangelo, Craig Boone/Female Courier
Series: A Kind of Blindness [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562854
Comments: 73
Kudos: 114





	1. Chapter 1

It was funny, in a cruel way. For all of her attempts at convincing him, it was only the Courier’s absence that could finally force his hand.

Boone stood in front of a single story office building, worn down by time and sand. The Followers flag hanging from a steel awning fluttered in the breeze. Wastelanders hung around the courtyard of the complex. Some chattered. Others squinted up at the sun. 

Their eyes fell upon him when his boots crunched against the gravel. He didn’t belong here. They were sick, hunched over. He was strong, tall. Still, Boone walked slowly down the path. The double steel doors that awaited him seemed like the mouth of some great beast.

He’d been there before, with the Courier. The thought stung. Memories with her always did. 

It made a sort of sense, he thought. He’d first come to try and help Corporal Betsy on Lieutenant Gorobets’ behalf. Now the two had coerced him into visiting for his own sake.

Boone had run out of things to chase, people to kill. Unable to vent his emotions into every fired bullet, it was starting to affect his decision making. Even he had to admit it. He hadn’t been this bad since his last days in Novac. They’d given him a choice: get help, or leave the NCR.

He could find work without the NCR. Caravan guarding, mercenary work. Bodyguard. He’d done as much in his travels with her. It wasn’t caps or some sense of personal satisfaction that made him take the option that’d keep his job.

If he was being honest with himself, he was tired. Tired of what his life had become. Tired of feeling the way he did. He’d glimpsed another life long enough for this one to wear thin.

He pressed his palm against one of the steel doors, and pushed.

The clinic was dimly lit. Good. Bright lights made him uneasy. He already felt like an intruder. Inside, a pair of junkies played cards with shaking hands. A rail thin woman read a book and hummed gently. She didn’t look up, even though the open door spilled sunlight across her.

Boone shut it behind him and stepped up to the empty front desk. Each footfall seemed to thunder, his heavy boots made the old linoleum creak. No one paid it any mind. 

Gentler footsteps sounded from down a nearby hall. A short, dark haired woman approached with a clipboard in hand, lab coat fluttering behind her. Faded stitching on her front left pocket read ‘Dr. Usanagi’.

“Boone?”

He nodded.

“You’re early.” she said apologetically. “I wasn’t expecting you for a few more minutes.”

“NCR’s not great at scheduling.” Boone shrugged, an attempt at offsetting how deeply uncomfortable he was. 

Usanagi’s smile was a strained one. “So I’ve heard.” The NCR was a sensitive subject with the Followers - and vice versa. Since Freeside’s violent takeover, they’d steered clear of New Vegas’ centre - and it was only a matter of time before the clinic he found himself in shuttered its doors too. Still, the Followers stayed true to their creed - aiding any in need who shadowed their doorstep. 

Maybe Boone was worse than he thought, if he was deemed worth the effort.

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” Usanagi continued. “Though I believe the Courier did most of the talking.”

“Yes.” he answered flatly. 

Usanagi jotted something down on her clipboard. “You can follow me.”

She led him down the halls, past a room full of ruined cubicles and a handful of offices host to operating tables. He supposed the Courier must have been on one of them at some point, when she’d traded months worth of pay for an implant to restore some of what she’d lost with a bullet to the brain.

There wasn’t a damn place in the Mojave he could escape her.

Eventually they came to a small corner office, one wall made entirely out of glass brick, still intact. It diffused the golden light of the Mojave, softly illuminating the room. A desk with neatly stacked papers and a few potted wasteland plants sat against a wall. Two worn armchairs sat up against the glass, leather armrests rubbed down nearly to the wood beneath. 

“Take a seat.” Usanagi instructed, gesturing at one of the armchairs. She shut the door behind him, sat down at her desk, and scribbled a few more things onto her clipboard while he did as she said.

The chair was comfortable, leather softened by wear. It didn’t help him relax, but it didn’t make things worse.

“So.” The doctor began, swivelling in her office chair to face him. “I have a few questions for you. First - are you here because you want to be, or because you were threatened?”

“I…” He grit his teeth unconsciously. “... both.”

“I can’t help you if you don’t want help.” she explained, as if she was observing the weather. “If the answer is both, however. Another question. What do you want to get out of our sessions?”

Boone blinked at her from behind his aviators. She was discussing things in a casual manner, as if they weren’t just about to attempt to put his broken mind back together. It calmed him, in some strange way. As if he was just glancing over weapon mods at a merchant’s stall, haggling over a business transaction. As if this was the most normal thing in the world, and she hadn’t just given him a difficult question.

Speaking the words was an admission that he _knew_ he had a problem, that he hadn’t just been made to see the light. That for years he’d gone on like this, inadvertently placing the lives of others in danger alongside his own. His stomach twisted.

“I want to be better.” he murmured. Boone looked down at his hands, unwilling to look at the doctor’s face. “I want anything other than this.”

“Okay.” Usanagi’s voice was soft. “That might take some time. I’m willing to take that time if you are.”

Boone exhaled deeply. “Yeah.” It was more of a grunt than a vocalization, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the doctor lean back in her chair, taking it as an affirmative.

“What do you think the problem is?” she inquired politely. “Not what the NCR thinks the issue is. You.”

“Aren’t they the ones who hired you?” He dodged the question. It didn’t go unnoticed.

“They contacted me. They didn’t hire me.” Usanagi smiled. It was a gentle thing. Her dark eyes were warm - though they’d narrowed slightly in focus when he’d avoided her question. The office’s diffused light softened her features. “In full disclosure, these sessions are returning a favor.”

Boone swallowed. “This for the Courier?”

“It’s _for_ you.” she corrected. “She asked me to help you as best as I could, if you ever made this decision. You’re aware of what she’s done to progress the cause of good in the Mojave. I think it’s a fair trade.”

“You’re admitting she did good?”

“Of course. Things didn’t go… quite as we’d hoped, but it’d be a lie to say life hasn’t improved.” Her hands were folded neatly in her lap. 

Boone didn’t know if she was speaking the truth or just telling him what he wanted to hear. He fell silent instead.

Usanagi let the silence hang for a minute or so before leaning forward a little in her chair. “Do you like talking about her?”  
  
He glared at her. She didn’t flinch, or change her posture - she still sat in polite interest. “What do you think?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. I can’t think or feel for you.” 

His fists clenched. He dug his nails into his palms, the sparks of pain a reminder of feeling. A release to let him bring voice to his thoughts. “No, I don’t like talking about her. She’s gone. There’s no reason to.”

“Were you on bad terms?”

“No.” Boone answered more quickly than he’d like. “I… maybe. Fuck. I don’t know. That’s… that’s not why I don’t want to talk about her.” He slumped back in the armchair. It creaked under his weight.

“No?” Usanagi tilted her head. 

“No.” he repeated. The Courier used to tease him about his skill in killing conversations. He was nearly as good at it as he was at killing people.

The doctor rolled her chair back. “That’s alright. Why don’t we take a step back. Tell me about yourself. It’s been some time.”

It’d been two years since the Courier left for the last time. Two years and five months. He still kept track. 

“I’m a soldier.” he began. This was an easier line of questioning. “1st Recon.” Boone tapped his beret. “Signed up the day I turned sixteen, back out west. They sent me here.”

“You were born out west?”

“Yeah. Normal family. I mean it.” He glared at the way her eyes sparked with interest. “Big family. Lot of brothers and sisters. I fell somewhere in the middle. Wanted to get out. Explore. NCR seemed like the right thing to do.”

“You wanted space.” The doctor nodded. “Many men pre-War did the same - joined the military to see beyond their hometown. Was your time with the Courier part of an assignment?” Usanagi phrased it so lightly the memory almost didn’t hurt. 

“No. I’d left. Stayed that way for a while. Came back after the Dam. They wanted to put me in command, but.” He clasped his hands together to keep his nails from digging into his palms anymore. “I’m here. Not really command material.”

“I don’t think so. It takes a lot of courage and self awareness to seek treatment. Aren’t those traits that suit a leader?”

“Thought you said it doesn’t matter what you think.” he returned bitterly. Still, it didn’t change the gentle expression on her face. Boone supposed she’d probably heard worse from her patients going through detox. 

“You disagree?”

“No.” he admitted. Boone rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Whatever. I’m back with the NCR. Been getting sloppy with work. There’s the problem you’re looking for.”

“What does your work entail?”

It felt like a job interview. He grunted and rolled his shoulders, straightened his posture. “Until recently, we were running down the last of the Legion.” He spat on the floor. Usanagi didn’t seem to mind. “I headed a small scouting team. We’d cull the small camps on our own. Gather intel on the forts. Pushed them back as far as we could.” Before she could ask, he added. “We hit desert in New Mexico. Local tribals said no one who ever entered left. So we swept south and pushed back west. Two year tour.”

Usanagi noted something on her clipboard. Boone scowled at her.

“Details.” she explained. “Dates, names, places. This is all your life, you’ve lived it - I’m just catching up. They’re kept somewhere secure, don’t worry.” She patted a safe serving as a shelf for a dozen medical textbooks.

He fell silent again. Usanagi, as before, felt comfortable enough letting it linger for a little while. She tapped her pen against her clipboard eventually, however.

“You said you were getting sloppy in your work. How?”

Boone’s jaw was beginning to get sore from how he was clenching it. Every word was ground ceded, a little bit of his armor discarded. For so long he didn’t want anyone to see. Now he was willingly giving pieces of himself up, in the hope that they could be connected together again.

“Couldn’t sleep. Used to that, but started seeing things. Missing things, too. We got caught by a patrol. Would’ve died. Recruit was out taking a piss, snuck back up and took out the patrol.” He rubbed the back of his neck, painfully aware of his own exhaustion. “Can’t handle some noises anymore. I like the quiet. The dark. Always did, but… more, now.” 

Usanagi was studying him. Not in the way the Courier did - the doctor’s eyes didn’t drag across him, didn’t linger places that made his face hot. Usanagi was like a mother looking over her child after they’d fallen, peering around for scrapes.

“How long have you had trouble sleeping?”

“A while.”

“Give me a guess.”

Boone moved his hands back to the armrests. He was a sniper, he should be used to staying still - but here it was an impossibility. He wanted to move - felt adrenaline flowing through his veins. This was a battle - he knew it would be - but where with the Courier he had the Mojave’s expanse to burn out his tension here he was trapped in a chair.

How long had it been since Carla died?

He counted the days as he counted the Courier’s.

Boone stared at the dullest point in the wall that he could find. He let the gray wash over him.

“Five years, maybe.”

Four years, seven months. Carla died in October. He met the Courier the next month. Two and a half years after that, he saw her for the last time.

Usanagi wrote it down. 

“I can give you something to help you sleep, if you like.”

“Already have something.”

She raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Whiskey.” He had Cass to thank for that.

Her expression fell. “Oh. Well - I think you’d like what I have more.” She smiled. “No hangovers.”

“I don’t do chems.” he grunted. “Look, save it for someone who matters.”

“You don’t think you matter?”

“I know I don’t. I don’t have the jet shakes. I’m not bleeding out.”

“Some wounds aren’t physical.” Usanagi countered gently. “They’re just as crucial to heal.”

“I’m a soldier. Rank and file. I can handle it.”

“You’re a person. Craig Boone. If you need help, it makes sense to take it.”

His first name made him flinch. Carla was the last person to use it regularly. The Courier had only used it once.

“I’m sorry. What would you like me to call you?” 

“Boone. Just Boone.”

Usanagi nodded. “Boone - what makes you think you’re not worth helping?”

“Because I should be dead.” It was easier to say the second time - Usanagi wasn’t the first to hear it. “I’m not. I don’t want to die, not anymore. But it’s what I deserve.”

The doctor blinked, the confession unexpected. Maybe she thought she’d made a day one breakthrough - but she didn’t seem triumphant or cheery. Instead, a small frown graced her lips.

“Do you want to talk about why you feel that way?”

He stared at the wall hard enough to bore a hole into it if he could.

Carla never heard of Bitter Springs. He’d only ever told the Courier. He didn’t know if he could trust Usanagi with it. It’d turn the one person who seemed willing and able to deal with him against him. The Followers were bleeding hearts. They already hated the NCR. If Usanagi knew what he did…

“No.”

“Okay.” Another scribble of her pencil. The sound was starting to agitate him. “We’ll talk about the easy subjects first, but if we’re going to make progress we’re going to have to explore that at some point.”

He scoffed.

“Can you tell me about some of the people in your life? People who are important?”

“Don’t have any.”

“You’re here. There has to be someone.”

“There’s _no one_.” He’d risen out of his chair a little. He sank back into it, his ears hot. “Everyone’s gone. One way or the other.”

Usanagi was quiet for several moments.

“One way or the other?”

“Moved. Dead. And dead to me.” He counted down his fingers. 

The doctor hummed thoughtfully. “Tell me about one. Just one.”

Boone racked his mind for a safe option, of all the people he’d known, of the few who approached something resembling a ‘friend’.

“Cass travelled with us. When I was with the Courier. Courier helped her out. Same thing she did with everybody, really.” He chewed at the inside of his mouth. “Ran water caravans. Decent shot. Ten years older than me. Could go shot for shot when it came to whiskey. Had a drinking problem, I guess, but most of us did.”

“What happened to her?”

“Got her caravans started back up. Out on the trail somewhere, I guess. Haven’t seen her in a couple years.” He rubbed his jaw at the memory, and knew where Usanagi’s next question would lead. “We fought. She hit me.”

“You know why?”

“I told her the Courier was gone.”

Usanagi knew enough to leave things at that, for now. Instead she tucked her pencil in her clipboard. “I won’t ask more of you today. Opening up at all is a lot.” Surrendering, it seemed. “Are you on leave, or…”

“Paid leave.” It felt like every muscle in his body relaxed, the topic changed at last. He finally shifted his gaze from the wall. The world came into focus again - at some point the sun had begun to set, the room turned orange. Later than he thought.

“Ah. I suppose so. If they require any paperwork I’ll be happy to give it to them.” She tapped her desk. “You’re certain about the sleep aids, then?”

“Yeah.” He’d take her time, but not her supplies. In truth, he didn’t want to sleep. He didn’t know what dreams awaited him.

Usanagi stood and opened the office door. “I’ll walk you out, then. And - for our next session. Be more prepared to talk. It will be difficult, but it’s necessary. I’ll see you in a week.”

With the businesslike speech, it was almost as if there’d never been a weight on his chest at all.

_Be prepared._

Boone knew well enough that the battle hadn’t yet begun.


	2. Chapter 2

Boone saw people in the shadows.

Figures reached out in his periphery, shifting in the darkness. 

How long had it been since he’d last slept? 

He squinted at the faded calendar hanging on the motel wall. Wednesday. Two days, then.

The shadow people were old friends. He wondered if they were ghosts, sometimes. The first time they’d unsettled him. Now they kept him company when he ran from sleep.

Two days.

He’d left Usanagi’s clinic three days ago. Walked through the bones of Vegas’ outskirts in the twilight. Saw the stars before he made it back to the El Rey Motel.

They used to watch the stars.

Memory was sharp, now that he’d spoken of her at the clinic. There were reasons he’d tried to bury things in the dust. Now he couldn’t stop remembering. As he walked down the broken pavement and listened to the music of cicadas, the past drifted about him like smoke.

Back to back, leaning against each other. She was as tall as he was and nearly as sturdy in her own, wiry way. They both held their rifles in their lap. He kept his eyes on the horizon, while she’d tipped her head back to look at the stars. Her hair, dark and curly, cascaded over his shoulder. Sometimes it’d brush his cheek and fuel fantasies he’d tried to keep in the dark.

The night sky was their only constant. The Courier was a drifter, one of those desert eagles. Always taking flight, never roosting for long. When they made camp, the ceiling of stars was a familiar sight for the both of them. A comfort.

Once she asked him what he thought about how the stars they looked at were the same before the War, and would be the same long after. He told her he didn’t know. It was his answer for a lot of things. Boone tried not to think about most things, as a rule.

The Courier exhaled. Said that it scared her and comforted her at once. Made her feel small and safe. 

He told her she didn’t need to rely on the stars to be kept safe. Felt her head turn against his back, her cheeks fill with a smile.

Trying to hold onto the memory was like trying to keep water in his hands. Fragments of it glimmered in his mind when he’d finally returned to his tent and laid down.

That night he dreamt of her corpse. He'd never seen it, but he imagined it vividly all the same.  


He was walking in that endless desert when he came across it. 

Smiling cheeks sunken and dessicated. Dark skin shrunken and dried, mouth twisted open in an eternal scream, her lips peeled back from her teeth. Eyes blackened. Lumps of hair and the faded beret on her head the only mark of what she had been, half buried in the sand.

The tribals had said no one returned from the desert. They’d told him a woman with the same beret as him had entered, months ago.

This was the woman he knew. Mummified. Drained of all she had. Forgotten in the wastes. Dead.

A dry, rattling breath.

Not quite.

A skeletal hand reached out - pip-boy still on her wrist. She crawled out of the sand, clawed her way toward him. Boone was paralyzed.

The Courier grabbed the barrel of his rifle and pressed it to her temple - against her scar, etched on her leathery skin. Those black pits of eyes stared up at him, accusatory.

_ I paid your debt. _

He awoke in his motel room drenched with sweat, throat dry. Must have been shouting again. It was happening more often, the dreams crossing into reality. It was bad for morale at McCarran, to see the man who'd helped bring down the Legion in such a state.

So he found himself lying on a dirty mattress surrounded by shadows in the El Rey motel, on New Vegas’ outskirts. Now he avoided sleep. He’d stared out the window through battered blinds, watched a sandstorm blow in and fade, the sun rise and set. 

He remembered the room they’d gotten at the Atomic Wrangler the first day they walked into Freeside. Her sleeping form, illuminated by the shafts of light shining through the holes in the curtains. She’d slept soundly, despite the muffled lovemaking coming from the room next door. 

They never shared a bed if he could help it. She’d offered, once, when they were dead tired - but when he declined she sat herself down on the floor and took first watch. It was their routine. Boone was thankful she shared his paranoia - and figured her reasons were similar to his.

Now, the absence of her familiar silhouette at the foot of the bed made sleep an impossibility, even if he’d welcome it. He'd only just made peace with the void at his side where Carla once would be.

Boone rolled onto his back and stared up at the peeling paint on the ceiling.

Every day, someone knocked at his door. Tentatively at first, but insistently if he took too long to answer it. Every day, he’d open the door to see a fresh faced recruit pale at the sight of him and hand over a bundle of food and clean water. They seemed thankful to be dismissed. Gorobets still found a way to make sure he was alive.

It was all that really kept him aware of the passage of time. This close to New Vegas, the city lights shone through his window and illuminated his room even at night. He’d read an old poster that called it a city that never slept.

Some things never changed.

Four days later, his appointment with Dr. Usanagi arrived. He’d slept a dozen hours total, each burst of rest granted by a few shots of whiskey.

He knew he must have looked like shit, because this time when he walked through the office courtyard the gathered patients didn’t give him a second glance. He looked like he belonged.

Usanagi’s face when she greeted him confirmed his suspicions.

“Where are they keeping you?” was the first question out of her mouth when she shut the door to her office.

“Motel nearby. They’re feeding me.” Boone sank down into the armchair thankfully this time, his body sore from the trek. Exhaustion nagged at his bones.

“You haven’t shaved.” she observed. 

“Don’t think regs matter now.” He grunted, stretching out his legs. 

“Have you slept?”

Boone squinted up at her. “Enough.”

“You’ve changed since last week.” Usanagi didn’t sit down at her desk this time - didn’t have her clipboard, either. Instead she picked up a small watering can and tended to the various potted plants in the office as they spoke. “How is being on leave?”

“Bad.” 

She took the leaf of an aloe vera plant in between her fingers. “I find that people need structure in their lives - a very small amount, but structure nevertheless. A goal to work towards. Do you have hobbies?”

“Shooting.”

“What do you do recreationally?”

“Shoot. Drink.”

Usanagi's dark eyes narrowed. She'd been presented with a challenge.

"What did you do before… whatever happened?" She rephrased her question.

He stared at her, let the silence hang. It didn't make her uncomfortable. Rather, she kept watering her plants, leaving him to sit with no company but his thoughts.

It didn't take long for him to speak, under such circumstances.

"Used to play cards. Gambled. Danced. Sang." It all felt like it was a lifetime ago.

He played cards with the Courier on occasion - when a sand storm would roll in and they found themselves pinned down somewhere. Once, he sang with her - influenced by whiskey and the blood of Caesar on his hands. He didn't remember the song anymore.

They were weak echoes of what he'd done with Carla. Each a reminder of what he had lost.

Usanagi seemed to be reading his face, he realized, when he rose from his memories. If she saw any hint toward what raged in his mind, she didn't remark on it.

"Did you ever write songs? Or write anything? Create?"

He'd opened his mouth to answer 'no', but that wasn't quite the truth.

"I had a journal. Have." he admitted.

Usanagi prodded gently at a potted broc flower. She didn't make eye contact with him. He found it easier to talk, this way - with her back turned. Maybe she was starting to notice it, too.

"Tell me about it."

"It was old. Pre-war. Faded. Cover was green once, I think. Smoke and dirt got to it."

The doctor made no comment. He continued.

"Courier gave it to me." The confession didn't seem to pique Usanagi's interest, emboldening him to continue. "We… we fought. Said that if I wouldn't talk to her, I could talk to the book. Told me I needed an outlet if we were going to survive."

"She's a perceptive woman." Usanagi observed. Her speaking of the Courier in the present tense made his heart ache. "Did you end up following her advice?"

"Not at first. But as time went on… fuck." He swallowed, realizing that he'd have to give information if he was going to fix his problem. "I used to live in Novac." He began. "That's where she found me. Was the night sniper. There, things were routine. Same thing every night. Could do my work in my sleep. Out there, with her - I wasn't up to par. Was sloppy. Forgot things."

"Similar to your complaints now."

Boone nodded begrudgingly. It was the same pattern repeating itself, and he so dearly wanted it to end. "I missed a shot on a Legionnaire. She took her first bullet on my watch."

He hadn't missed the second shot. Watched brain matter spray through a visored helmet, then ran to her side. Felt hate wash over him again as he did his best to clean her wound - a bullet through the thigh, narrowly missing her artery. She'd walked with a limp for two months, her gait a reminder of his failure. They moved slowly. The Courier's wings were clipped.

"Did you change your mind?"

"Yeah."

"How much have you written?"

Boone shrugged. "Not much."

The journal was a quarter full. It was a bland thing, just as he was. The words were hollow, lacked poetry. Stated facts, events of the day. But it was something. Something that wouldn’t ask him questions, wouldn’t look at him with those big brown eyes.

He marked down the time that had passed since she'd left on it, now. Three pages had been devoted to his tallies. Days, grouped into weeks, grouped into months. 

Tallies were interspersed on pages of words. Without her to tell the few things he thought, the faded book was all that he had. It kept him sane. For a while.

"Did you find that it helped you?"

"Made my writing better." He answered evasively. "Next bullet she took wasn't my fault, if that's what you're asking."

"So what changed?"

Boone tried not to glare at her. Three pages of tallies were what changed. Years of her absence. Her corpse in the sand.

"She left."

Usanagi turned her head to look at him. "Are you ready to talk about her?"

Was he ready. She knew, then - read the pain on his face. "No."

"Tell me about Novac, then."

He’d been given two uncomfortable options. She’d told him he’d have to address them if he had any hope of improving. 

Boone had talked about Novac before. As much as it pained him, a little of that poison had already been bled from him. The Courier was still deep in his bones.

“I lived there with my wife.” He began. 

Usanagi retrieved a pair of scissors from her desk and started clipping at one of her plants. Her focus seemed set on her work, but she glanced over at him when he’d paused.

“Her name was Carla.” It was right, that she’d be the first. Boone had already taken a few bricks down from the wall he’d built around the subject. He’d started to process his role in the matter after the Courier helped him put a bullet in Caesar’s skull - and stopped abruptly when she disappeared into the desert sand. “Met her my first time on the Strip. Manny - my… friend, dared me to talk to her. For some reason I made her laugh. Got married as soon as we could.”

“What drew you to her?”

Boone picked at his nails, seeking distraction. “She knew what I was thinking. What I was trying to say. Said it better than I ever could. Talked a lot. Helped me forget.” He glanced out the window, at the ruined city surrounding them. The skyline seemed to wave in the heat. “Was beautiful, too. Like she’d come from a better place than this. A better time. Too good for me.” he admitted. “That was the first thing I noticed. Didn’t talk much before we were married, just a few visits as often as I could. We were kids, really. Her parents didn’t like me. Rancher’s daughter. Father was protective. Sometimes I think she was looking for an escape.”

“So you moved to Novac?”

He grit his teeth. “Manny convinced us it’d be a fresh start. Carla wanted me to quit the NCR and move back out west with her.”

“What made you decide otherwise?”

Boone bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to hurt, tasted iron washing over his tongue. “I was an idiot. Didn’t want to go back. After everything I’d done, I felt like I had to stay. Still trusted Manny.”

Usanagi raised a brow, the only betrayal of her inner thoughts. “You had a falling out?”

He spoke quietly. “They never got along. Him and Carla. One night she came to me crying, said he told her she’d ruined me. Started trying to save to move somewhere else. Then she got pregnant and we didn’t want to risk travelling. Didn’t save us.” Boone cleared his throat in an attempt to keep it from closing up on him. Telling the tale the second time was easier. Sharp pain had dulled into an ache. “Came back one day to find her gone. Legion slavers came through and grabbed her. Too clean. Someone sold us out.” 

The doctor had become still. Even now, the Legion’s shadow hung heavy over the Mojave. A legacy of dread.

“I thought Manny had done it, for the longest time.” he breathed. “I managed to follow the slavers, but I took too long. Spent too many bullets. Just had the one when I saw Carla on the auction block.”

Boone still couldn’t speak the truth in its painful entirety, couldn’t detail it in sharp relief. When he’d told the Courier, years ago, there was some grim understanding on her features. Pain. As if she knew. He’d found a dried flower tucked into his pack of cigarettes the next day.

The doctor spoke at last. “I’m sorry.” Usanagi only had the expression so often seen in the Wasteland - blunted pity. It was a shame. Another death out of thousands. Another sad story to add to the pile. It was better than disgust, at least.

“Didn’t have a choice.” he murmured. “Stupid of me to think it could’ve been avoided. That things could’ve been good.”

Usanagi dropped the dead leaves she’d clipped from her plants into the trash. He watched them fall, fluttering down, one by one. At last, she turned to face him, her hands tucked neatly into the pockets of her lab coat.

“Do you think you don’t deserve happiness?”

Boone nodded and stared at the floor. “The only thing that makes me think this is a just world is that every time I’m close to grasping it, it’s torn from me.”

He’d never stop atoning for Bitter Springs. Carla. The Courier. Even the sweet oblivion of death was held from him. His eyes stung, dry and sleepless.

Usanagi hummed. “None of us are infallible. We’ve all done wrong. Some of us have done monstrous things. That isn’t the part that makes a monster. It’s what you do with the life you have after that decides who you are. If you’re here, you’re trying.” She didn’t know what he’d done. Not yet. He didn’t know if he could ever tell her.

“Courier said something similar.” He muttered. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told her. A murderer who tried to make amends is still a murderer.”

The doctor canted her head. “You told the Courier?”

Air left his lungs in a great sigh. “Of course. She… wasn’t a woman you could keep secrets from. You met her. Eyes like fire. Saw everything. Burned out the truth.” Boone shifted, tried to brush away the sentence. “I stayed in Novac. After. It’s where I met her. She was on her way up to Vegas. I… got her to help me, to figure out who sold Carla out to the Legion.”

“You said you’d thought it was Manny.”

“It wasn’t. That’d make some sort of fucking sense.” He closed his eyes, and for a brief moment his exhaustion almost overtook him. “No. Was the woman who ran the local inn. Closest thing to a mayor. Took offense that Carla missed the Strip and wanted her gone.” The words still tasted bitter. “People in town already couldn’t look me in the eye. After that I wanted out. She needed another gun, I needed to kill as many Legion sons of bitches as I could. The rest - well. You know what she did.”

“I know the story of what she did.” Usanagi corrected him, to his surprise. “That’s not the same thing as the truth. I didn’t know her. Only way to know a person is to hear things in their own words.”

Boone grunted. Same thing they were doing. He didn’t want her to know him. People who did that tended to die. He glanced at the clock. Time was almost up. “Either way. That’s Novac. Now you know.”

“Now I know.” Usanagi repeated, surveying him. “I’d like you to talk about your travels with her, next time. But first.” She opened a drawer in her desk and took out a faded box. “Sleep. I’d ask you to stay here since we try to curate a calm environment, but I’m not going to push my luck.”

He eyed the box, but didn’t take it. “They make you dream?” By now even he was willing to indulge her - as long as the price wasn’t too steep. He felt feverish with exhaustion, like the world around him was a mirage.

“Yes.” Usanagi replied. “They make you sleep. They can’t control what your mind does during it.”

“No.” Boone’s refusal was swift. It bothered the doctor, if her frown was any indication. 

She placed the box back in the drawer. “My offer stands.” Her tone was polite again. “I have one more suggestion, before you leave. I’d like you to take up writing again. Our sessions aren’t as frequent as I’d like, but I think writing will give you something productive to do in the interim.”

He looked up at her, over his shades. The light bothered his eyes. “You want me to bring the book in, too?”

Usanagi shook her head. “That defeats the purpose. Everyone edits themselves for an audience. There’s a saying - we are what we are in the dark. The journal can be the dark for you. Do you still have it? I can give you-”

“Yes.” It was buried at the bottom of his pack, that same pressed flower the Courier had tucked into his cigarette pack after he’d told her what he’d done to Carla placed between the cover and first page.

“Good.” She smiled genuinely as the two of them stood. “I’m glad. Same time next week. Take care, Boone.”

As he walked down the clinic’s halls, he couldn’t shake the sense that Usanagi had a plan he couldn’t comprehend. He only hoped it was one that wasn’t going to fuck him over.


	3. Chapter 3

The book was a black mark against the faded brown of his bedsheets, tossed upon it from the bottom of his pack. Somewhere below, he heard glass break and muffled shouting.

Boone had been staring at the damned thing for a near hour, slumped at the edge of the bed. He hoped a stray bullet from the fight in the room below would hit him and help him avoid the inevitable.

It didn’t take long for silence to settle back over his motel room. Fate had made his decision for him, then.

He took the journal into his hands and opened the cover.

Despite the years, the pressed desert lily remained intact. A physical mark that he’d known the Courier. The only true gift she’d ever graced him with - the one time she’d dared. He wanted dearly to run his fingers over it, to touch it, but he knew that his calloused hands would cause it to crumble to dust.

He’d been frightened he’d turn her to powder, once.

He was worried about the wrong thing.

Boone turned the page. The first entry, after they’d come across their first Legion raiding party on the road just south of Vegas, when she told him of Camp Searchlight’s fall.

_ Legion took out Searchlight. Dirty bomb. It’s getting bad. _

The Courier’s face was grim that day. He caught her dry heaving that night at camp when she thought he wasn’t looking.

She did a lot of things when she thought he wasn’t looking. Did all of her crying then. The Courier’s tears were bitter, angry things. A Mojave storm, rare, born of pent up pressure and pain.

People always gave him little credit. Mistook his inability to express himself for a lack of thought or perception. He wasn’t a philosopher or a poet - he left that to people who were suited for it - but he saw things well enough. 

Didn’t take eyes to see where the wind was blowing. The Legion’s flames were spreading, smouldering embers given new life. It felt like the world was about to end - or perhaps he wanted to think that way. Perhaps even with a death wish, part of him didn’t want to miss what was to come - wanted it to be wiped clean by the sand like he’d be.

It never came to be - his death, or the Legion’s victory. Not as long as the Courier drew breath.

The paper rustled as he turned the page. 

_ Picked up a stray at I-88. _

Veronica was one of the reasons the Courier was able to do what she did. He remembered watching the smaller woman instruct the Courier in repairing the solar panels at HELIOS One, listened idly in the Lucky 38 as Veronica offered potential routes for persuading the Brotherhood to stand down.

She likely saved the lives of countless NCR soldiers in the process.

Death took a Followers camp in trade. Fate always worked out that way. A balance had to be kept. She and the Courier didn’t look quite the same afterward. Had another weight to carry, another sight that could never be forgotten.

Maybe that was why their ramshackle group had gotten along so well. Everyone had blood on their hands, one way or another - and they all were seeking some way to wash them clean.

The next entry was scrawled in pencil.

_ Made it to Freeside. Stray’s doing her own business. Rooming at the Wrangler. Courier’s working on getting into the Strip. _

She was buzzing with anticipation. He could still remember the way her hands shook, how only a bottle of beer or a tumbler of whiskey could get them to still. The scar on her head was still a wicked one. Vengeance and answers were within her grasp.

The Courier had let him get part of his vengeance. Aiding in hers seemed like a good way to keep the balance even.

How she went about the matter was very different.

She’d asked him to keep posted by the stairwell, just in case. He watched her disappear into a room with the man in the checkered suit and return with a change of clothes, bloody knuckles, and a promise the man wouldn’t be bothering her again.

The Courier didn’t make promises she couldn’t keep.

Boone never knew what she did to Benny, but he had a few guesses. At the time, he’d been somewhat annoyed at the theatrics of it all.

Later, annoyance was colored by jealousy.

Another sign he’d ignored and smothered. A sprout he’d tried to crush into the dirt.

Roots still ran deep.

Boone ran his hand down his face, felt the scratch of stubble against his palm. He couldn’t gather the will to shave. Probably for the best. Even after all this time, having a blade so close to his neck was a tempting option. It’d be quick, too quick to realize the pain. Rare in the Mojave.

He was heading down that familiar path again. Before, he’d say something to her, seek out a distraction. Now he was alone.

The pages rustled as he flipped through the journal pages, reaching the first blank page. Folded over were maybe fifty pages of writing. Fifty pages. That was the count of their life together. A few years and fifty pages. He should have written more. He wasn’t in danger of forgetting the major events. They weren’t the important things.

A pencil rested against the book spine, where he’d last discarded it. The thing seemed to stare up at him.

She’d told him to talk to the journal if he couldn’t speak to her. Did she plan for this? When she’d given it to him, did she know she’d leave him, go beyond the veil he couldn’t follow? 

Boone took the pencil in hand. 

_ I don’t know what to do. _

He swallowed. The words seemed different on paper, more powerful. Physical evidence of the immaterial. Like the fifty pages.

_ Do I talk about you? Would you want that? _

Sometimes he hallucinated her voice, when sleep had evaded him far longer than his body could withstand. He tried to imagine her sitting at the foot of the bed, running a brush through her thick hair as she always did in the evenings. Sometimes she’d hum, or wonder about tactics. He appreciated the conversation even if he didn’t show it, staying silent for much of the time. When he did speak, though - she listened.

How would she feel if he spoke of her to Usanagi? If he dredged up the terrible and the beautiful, the lifetime’s worth that they had felt, the depths that went unspoken? They’d both had walls that they’d taken down, fierce trust in the other. They knew things about the other that no one else ever could.

Could he dismantle it, pure and untouched, even if to try and build himself into a human again?

He remembered the way the wind blew at Bitter Springs, when she’d returned there with him. Twilight had turned the desert purple. Her hair drifted in the breeze, black as the figures he spotted on the horizon. Too many.

The Courier only smiled when he told her as such, and took her rifle into her hands. Said she wasn’t about to let him have all the fun. There was an intensity in her eyes that shook him. The same her eyes held when she saw him take a bullet, the same when she bandaged his wounds.

She’d die to protect him. She’d given him the journal to begin with.

Of course she wouldn’t mind. She knew what it was to try and piece yourself together again.

Boone stared at the words on the page for a few moments more before snapping the journal shut.

\---

Usanagi had tea for him, this time. A cracked pot and two metal mugs on a rusting surgical tray. He took the steaming hot mug she offered him and cupped it in his hands, relishing the sparks of pain shooting up from his palms. Pain was one of few feelings he had left to him.

“How are you holding up?” The doctor inquired after taking a quick sip from her own mug.

“The same.” Boone frowned. That wasn’t entirely true. “Maybe not. Thinking more.”

Usanagi smiled that same reassuring little smile of hers. She’d found her calling, he thought, seeing the visible contentment that even the smallest progress made. “Good. Now, last time I asked you to think about talking about the Courier. She seems to be on your mind.”

He felt heat rise in him, indignant at such an understatement. The Courier’s blood was on his hands, stained his soul like so many others. The anger faded quickly, smothered by the weight of that knowledge.

“She is.” Boone admitted. “... where do I start?”

The doctor set her mug down neatly on her desk. She turned her chair, giving him much needed privacy. It was easier to talk when he thought he was alone. “Describe her for me.”

“You’ve seen her.” He didn’t mean to snap. Did it too often. Despite everything, the habit wasn’t about to change now.

“Not through your eyes.” 

“She was tall for a woman. Could look me in the eye.” So the Courier did, even after he told her about Bitter Springs. “Thick hair.” He made a vague gesture by his head, as if to physically demonstrate the volume. “Guess she had a good upbringing, got fed. Furthest thing from stunted.”

“Do people not look you in the eye often?” 

The way the doctor picked out his choice of words was unsettling. He found himself thankful she was on his side - or at least pretending. He rolled his shoulders noncommittally. “Don’t meet people much.”

She took another sip of tea, letting the silence hang. He continued - here, he despised the quiet.

“Bullet to the head did something to her. Made her different. She was different, before, but-”

He saw Usanagi’s head turn in her chair quite suddenly. “You knew her before she was shot?”

Boone stiffened. It was only a matter of time. Sleeplessness made the mind clouded, made it too easy to make mistakes. “Didn’t… know her. Saw her.” It was a truth he wasn’t ready to speak. “She stood out.”

“What made her stand out, to you?”

“Rage.” It shamed him, then, and it shamed him still. He turned his head to the window, the shadows cast by the blinds rippling over him.

Usanagi was quiet again - but this time, as the minutes passed, he didn’t move to fill them. “We’ll come back to that when you’re ready, then.” A small pause. She was considering her words. “How would you define your relationship with her?”

“We weren’t fucking.” The vulgarity was his own meagre attempt at a defense, a reflexive attempt to shove further questioning away. 

“Relationships are a broader spectrum than that.”

Boone sighed in resignation. “We were comrades. Brothers in arms. Travelled together. Slept, ate, bathed. Patched each other up. Didn’t really give a shit about privacy. Never felt strange.” He’d nursed her through a bad bout of food poisoning. She’d managed to bring him back from an infection that had him delirious with fever. For all they avoided certain things, in this regard there were no pretenses between them.

“Did you enjoy her company?”

He fidgeted in his seat. “Not at first. Didn’t enjoy anything back then, to be honest.” Back then. He didn’t enjoy anything now, either. He’d been brought to life for a few short and sweet years, then covered in dirt once more. “Liked to ask questions. Was fair of her - we were strangers. She was smart enough to want to know what kind of man I was.”

“What kind of man are you?”

The question caught him off guard. “A murderer.”

“But she trusted you.”

“Didn’t say she made the right decision. Stupid.”

“You think she was stupid?”

“Of course not.” He snapped again, glaring at the back of her chair. “She just-” He felt a chill run over him, as if he’d been struck by fever all over again. That familiar sense of unplaceable dread. “- she had a blind spot. With me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because she wanted to know me. Because she kept asking fucking questions. She stayed even when she got her answers. I saw her kill men for less.”

That damned silence returned again. He at last took a sip from his tea, now barely warm. It was a mistake. The scent was familiar. Herbal.

The Courier made tea every night they made camp, if she was able. Threw cuttings of plants he was unfamiliar with into their pot of boiling water. The herbal scent was strong - the first time she did it, he realized it was one of the scents that lingered on her. She’d pour him a mug, just as Usanagi did, and it’d keep him warm as he kept watch on those cold Mojave nights.

“Do you think, perhaps, she saw something you didn’t?” Usanagi’s voice dragged him out of his memories, and he found his temper wearing thin.

“She saw a mirage. What she wanted to see.” He set the mug down on the end table next to his chair. 

Usanagi’s chair turned. The look she gave him wasn’t pitying, exactly, but it had that same streak of sadness to it. “Did Carla see what she wanted to see?”

It felt as if he was choking. Breathing suddenly became difficult. He clenched his fists, willing his muscles to relax. Air flowed back into his lungs, allowing him to speak. “No. Don’t- Carla and the Courier were different women. Don’t compare them. Not like that.”

Usanagi knew she was treading on dangerous ground. “I didn’t mean to imply they were the same. My apologies.“ She took another sip of her tea. “What I meant was this - we often dig our own graves. Let ourselves sit in a pit. We get used to the cold, and dirt, and darkness, and think that’s what life is. Sometimes it takes seeing the world through the eyes of someone else - someone who isn’t in that pit - to know the truth about ourselves. ”

“Carla didn’t know what I’d done.” Boone murmured. “With her, it was like I was a better man. I lived as a better man. It was like being in… in a different world. A different time.” His eyes stung for want of tears. “The Courier - she knew. Still stayed. It felt wrong.”

“Why did you tell the Courier, and not Carla?”

“I wanted to be the man Carla thought I was.” He exhaled. “And I was a coward. She lived in another world. A place without blood, or death. I didn’t want to ruin it.” He fidgeted sharply, wanting nothing more than to take off running, to sprint until his legs screamed in agony and he could scarcely breathe for exhaustion. “I didn’t want her to leave.” He hated himself for it. “She deserved to know.”

“So the Courier-”

“I didn’t like the idea of her leaving, either.” Boone cut across swiftly, before Usanagi could make another implication that made him want to vomit. “But I figured I wouldn’t have to live with it long.” A humorless smile crossed his features, at the cold justice of it all. “Now here I am. And she’s gone.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the tag warnings come in: allusions to self harm and involuntary sex work are ahead. Nothing too graphic but it's there.

Telling the Courier about Bitter Springs wasn’t an act of bravery on his part. It was one of cowardice. He was tired of keeping things bottled up. Tired of being alone. He put the burden onto her - and still, he didn’t tell her what she needed to know. 

Just as he did to Carla.

Usanagi’s face was calm as ever, free of judgement. For a brief moment Boone was tempted to throw something, destroy something, anything to get a reaction out of her. Anything to earn the scorn he deserved. What made him think he deserved this? That for an instant, he could become something better? He was scum. That wouldn’t change.

The doctor was wielding silence like a weapon. He wanted to stop it. 

A muscle jumped in his jaw. 

“You haven’t asked about what I could tell the Courier.” The words rolled out through gritted teeth, self-sabotaging.

“No.” The doctor replied, hands neatly folded in her lap again. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“No.” he answered. “But I don’t want to talk about any of this.” A fire had been stoked in him, self hatred igniting energy within again. The same sort of aggression that had him answering the Courier’s questions, years ago. It was a feeling that seized him before, inevitably, he did something stupid. “Bitter Springs. That’s what I told her about.”

A shadow crossed Usanagi’s eyes, the same that mention of the Legion did. Even she couldn’t keep her disgust masked - or maybe he was good at finding it. She said nothing.

Boone _chuckled_ at that, a humorless rasp. He cast his gaze back to the glass brick, the world beyond warped and distorted. “Even the tribals don’t put up with people like me. Didn’t even do it for caps. Just did it because I was told.”

Usanagi’s stare could drill through steel. It took the wind out of him, the lack of response. Without fuel, the fire in him was snuffed as soon as it began, and now the truth of the monster he was hung in the air. 

He slumped back in his chair and took his sunglasses off. He rubbed at his eyes. “I’ll go.” he murmured.

“You were angry.” The doctor’s tone was observational, held no venom. It startled him. She shifted in her seat, leaning over to tap at the notes sitting on her desk. “Usually, when pressed, you evade or stonewall. Anger’s a part of it, but you haven’t lashed out. Until now. We’ve just begun, Boone. I think leaving would be a mistake.”

It was Boone’s turn to stare at her. The woman was beginning to scare him shitless.

“I know what happened at Bitter Springs. Our organization did what we could to pick up the pieces, where we could.” she continued. “You’re not the first soldier to be part of an atrocity, and you won’t be the last. Some go on unaware, justify things, carry on. Others inflict their pain on others. Very few try to heal. We can’t change the past, but we can make sure the future isn’t the same.”

“I don’t deserve to heal.”

Usanagi lifted her chin a little. “What was done was monstrous. But that doesn’t mean you have to continue to be a monster.”

Boone dropped his head into his hands. “I’ve tried.” he murmured. “But the pattern keeps repeating. I do the same thing, and people die. I’m not allowed to heal. Not allowed to be better.” He let his hands fall to his lap, staring at them. “This isn’t going to help. Courier tried the same shit and ended up dead for it.” He glanced back up to the doctor. “I’ve got a debt I’m paying. Bitter Springs. I can’t even fucking _die_. Not until I live every bit of misery I gave those people. Anything that tries to stop that burns. One way or another.”

“I wish the world made that kind of sense.” Usanagi replied gently. “Bad things happen to good people. Good things happen to bad people. You aren’t being punished for what you’ve done by fate.”

“ _I’m_ the one who does the burning.” Boone dismissed her. “I didn’t get Carla out of the Mojave. I didn’t follow the Courier on her way out.”

“And you thought you could make me hate you too much to help.” The doctor leaned forward, forcing the pieces together for him. Pushing him to the inevitable conclusion he’d tried to run from for so long. “You self sabotage. It’s not fate that’s doing this, Boone.”

It was him. It was always him. 

He wept.

\--

The walk back to the motel was a painful one. He felt like he’d been shot. The blow was always the first thing you felt when taking a bullet, metal colliding with the body at high speed. Then the cold - air rushing into the hole in the flesh, exposed and raw. The jitters of shock, adrenaline flooding the system - fading into pain.

Pain.

He’d inflicted it on himself - physical pain, a distraction to ensure the mental anguish never took root. Put out cigarettes on his own skin. Punched hard surfaces until his knuckles bled. Now he couldn’t bleed out what he felt even if he opened his own throat.

The return to Bitter Springs was the last time he felt this way. The last time he was this exposed, this vulnerable. The Courier sat with him until dawn, rubbing gentle circles between his shoulder blades until sleep took him at last and chased the dark away.

Now he was alone.

He opened the door to his room. The shaft of moonlight spilling past the open threshold illuminated a small, dark object on his bed.

The journal.

_Talk to me._

He still remembered her voice. Hallucinated it, sometimes. Didn’t know if sanity was a worthy trade off for its loss.

Boone’s rifle and pack fell to the ground. He pulled the door shut behind him and half stumbled toward his bed. The journal was lifted into his shaking hands, pencil gripped tightly in his fingers. 

_I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

He began to write, furiously, as if she was sitting at the foot of the bed like she used to, looking at him over her shoulder while she braided her hair for the night. 

_I knew who you were. Before all of this. I never told you. I thought you couldn’t handle it. I thought I’d ruin everything._

_I didn’t learn with Carla. I never learned. Both of you were stronger than I thought. Stronger than me. I’m a coward. I thought being a soldier would make me brave. It didn’t._

It was all too little, too late, but now he couldn’t stop. He bled himself with the pen instead of the blade.

_I slipped up with the doctor. Almost told her. Couldn’t, can’t. Not before you know._

_We met before Novac._

\---

2276\. He was twenty-one. Freshly arrived in the Mojave, one of many deployed in response to the new threat growing to the east. The first battle of the Dam was approaching. Not that he knew the gravity of it. He hadn’t seen death like that yet. Bitter Springs was still two years away. He was young, single, and stupid. 

Manny was bristling with excitement. They stepped off the tram onto the Strip, and it felt like another world. Even in the bright desert sun the city glimmered, neon shone, music played. He felt a mix of wonder and loss in his heart - for the first time in his life, he conceived of what the Great War had taken away.

Boone didn’t have much time to dwell. Manny pushed him into the nearest casino - The Tops - and they burned their pay on gambling and liquor. He’d never tasted whiskey so good. Manny somehow managed to pull a massive jackpot on blackjack, and they were not-so-subtly told to leave for the day.

They stumbled back out onto the Strip like so many of their comrades before them - fresh recruits unable to moderate themselves in a place so full of wonders. At least they didn’t paint the pavement with their vomit.

Manny scarcely let him catch his breath before dragging him down the street toward another one of the massive casinos. Its sign - ‘Gomorrah’ - was lit by neon and flame. Boone felt a strange twist of discomfort in his stomach when they passed a scantily clad woman dancing in front of it. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and winked at the two of them.

“The Tops has the cheapest liquor, they told me.” Manny explained, sounding entirely too sober to be fair. “But Gommorah’s where you go if you want to _really_ have a good time.”

In his drunken haze, Boone half-remembered NCR posters tacked up warning of the dangers of such liaisons. “Should we-”

“Fuck’s sake, Craig.” Manny interrupted. “ _Of course_ we should. If you want to be the only man who hasn’t had a taste of this place, I’m not walking you back.”

Boone dipped his head, sheepish, and let himself be led into the casino.

They were patted down in the entry hall, just as they were in the Tops - but here the weapon check was done by women more beautiful than he’d ever seen in sequined dresses that were only half falling apart. Manny grinned at him - paying more attention to Boone than the girls.

He wasn’t a handsome man. That was a fact that Boone was aware of as soon as he’d hit puberty. It made the fluttering eyelashes and playful grins cast in his direction by the… staff… feel wrong. A show. His discomfort seemed to amuse Manny, who led him through the main casino floor toward double doors in the back. He could hear muffled music from beyond them.

“How do you know where we’re going?” he had the wherewithal to ask, and Manny winked.

“Quit asking questions and _enjoy yourself_.” 

His friend pushed open the double doors.

The first thing that hit was the scent. Cigarette smoke, perfume, and a vague lingering chemical he couldn’t place. It made his already blunted faculties even fuzzier. Here the music was loud, bass deep enough to be felt in his body, reverberating. It was dark. His eyes took a few moments to adjust.

The room was coated in velvet, suede, and other heavy cloth, all deep red in color. A stage was the main source of illumination - women and men both dancing, coiling, moving fluidly - some around poles. Naked.

They’d passed a veil. Here, the staff didn’t bother with clothing. Apparel was decorative - jewels, transparent robes, tied ribbons around bodies, feathers and glitter. As if every person was a work of art. Boone tried his best not to stare while Manny tugged him over to a pair of plush armchairs in view of the stage. At another set of chairs, a woman with the blondest hair he’d ever seen gave a sergeant a lap dance.

His stomach twisted, and he didn’t know if it was due to discomfort or the excessive amounts of alcohol. Boone had _been_ with people before, he wasn’t a blushing virgin, but this - it was public. Manny was there. He didn’t want to cross into that territory with so many eyes on him.

But this was what soldiers did, wasn’t it? What men did, if they had the chance. He’d heard the talk back home, heard even more talk once they arrived at McCarran. He was a soldier too. There must have been something to it.

Manny didn’t sit. He placed his hands on Boone’s shoulders and pushed him down into one of the chairs. “Wait here. I’ll get us some drinks.”

Boone leaned back and tried his best to relax. The room was draped in a haze of thin smoke. A woman on stage with ribbons tied around her arms spun around one of the poles, legs outstretched, fabric fluttering behind her. Like a bird. 

A dull thud beside him signalled Manny’s return, but he didn’t have drinks in hand. Instead he grinned from ear to ear, in the way he did whenever he’d had some sort of plan cooked up. The last time he smiled like that he’d gotten the two of them assigned to the same unit straight out of basic.

“Where’s our drinks?”

“They’ll be brought to us.” Manny nearly purred, leaning back in his chair. His eyes cast over the individuals on stage. “Don’t worry, I tipped. Keep the caps flowing, and you’ll be kept happy.”

“You’ve been here before.” Boone stated the obvious, mouth dumbly agape.

“Listen, Craig.” He fished out a cigarette and lit it, taking a long drag. “You’re really bad at this whole ‘having fun’ thing. _Relax._ Cigarette?”

Boone shook his head and tried to mirror Manny’s casual stance. The man was his guide here, native to the Mojave - he trusted him.

It was safest to look at the stage. There, it just seemed like another show, a dance. Less like he was looking at something he wasn’t supposed to be. The minutes passed by, and slowly he began to calm, felt the comfortable buzz of alcohol lulling him into a sense of safety. 

Movement from his left brought him out of the short reverie, however. Manny had twisted in his chair - prompted by, Boone realized belatedly, the sound of approaching footsteps. He turned to follow Manny’s gaze.

It’d be years before he realized the significance of the sight that greeted him.

It was the first time he'd seen the Courier - though she didn't yet hold the title.

She was tall. Towered over the other women in her red heels. She wasn’t naked, wearing a white night robe with wide, feathered sleeves - but it was thin enough that it didn’t make much of a difference. It was stark against her - her skin was dark, eyes dark, hair dark. She looked like one of the women on the billboards.

Her smile wasn’t a smirk, like the others. It was one he recognized - baring of teeth, a stiff expression, nervous. Her eyes weren’t playful. In fact, she looked like she was ready to kill. In her hands were two martini glasses. He noted her grip on them was fierce.

It all melted away in a moment, when Manny waved his hand. She exaggerated her steps, hips swaying, feathered sleeves waving gently back and forth. The woman walked past Manny and set the two glasses down on the table between their chairs. 

Boone thought she was a waitress until Manny gestured over at him. 

“Don’t worry, Craig. I told them you’re shy.” He smirked, taking his martini glass in hand. “Early birthday present. You don’t wanna know how much. If you want to get a room that’s on you, though, buddy.”

There wasn’t a chance to ask what he’d meant before the woman walked over and seated herself in Boone’s lap, long legs crossed over his. Her arm snaked around the back of the chair, and she leaned forward. 

Up close, he could see past the thick lashes and dark makeup. Her eyes were brown - and cold. She was just as young as he was, but it looked like she’d seen so much more. He could feel how tense she was. It seemed they were equally uncomfortable.

“Don’t worry. I like that you’re shy.” Her voice was deeper than he thought, a woman’s, not a girl’s. She didn’t bother making it breathy. It was enough to make him second-guess if she was telling a beautiful lie like the rest, or the truth. “Your friend thought you needed some company.” She made a show of lowering her lashes, but he realized she was glancing at the empty holster on his belt. At once he felt his pistol’s absence, and was hit by how _vulnerable_ he was. 

Boone glanced over at Manny for some reassurance, but found his friend observing the display with a discomforting look in his eye. Manny smirked and raised his glass in a toast.

The two of them were trapped, Boone realized. She by her work, him by social contract. He lifted his hand and gestured that she lean closer.

“I don’t want to be here.” he confessed, voice low.

The flash of panic that crossed her eyes was clear, but she didn’t dare say a word to hint at it. 

A few beats of silence, as his drunken mind struggled to find the phrasing he was looking for. “What did he pay you for?”

“A dance. You can touch.” She didn’t even bother hiding her venom, now, though it wasn’t directed at him.

He felt Manny’s eyes on him. Boone leaned over to grab at his martini glass, downing a gulp to buy himself some time - and steel his nerves.

“Okay.” he slurred. “Then… do what you have to. Show me what’s safe, and maybe we can both get out of this.”

The woman lifted one leg over him, now straddling his lap. She took his hands in hers, and guided them over her hips. 

When she looked back at him, the rage in her gaze had crystallized into sheer focus.

Five years later, he’d see her wear that same expression through the scope of his rifle, garbed in the dust of the Mojave with a scar at her temple.

\---

_Should have just left. Didn’t have to stay. Cared about what Manny thought of me, and here we are._

_You should have known. When I heard you dealt with the Omertas, I should have said something. But I thought it’d make things worse. Thought you might not like to remember._

_Thought the same of Carla._

_You both deserved better._

Boone swallowed, staring at the jagged writing on the page. His vision swam. There were more things he wanted to write - more he wanted to say, but with the return of feeling so too came exhaustion. He set the journal down in his lap and rested his head against his palm, closing his eyes for just a moment.

When he woke up, he was sprawled on his back, the room turned blood red by the sun filtering through the curtains.

He hadn’t dreamed.


	5. Chapter 5

He’d heard tell of the flayed men of the Divide.

Boone felt like one of them. Unable to hide from the truth of what he was, the final wall he’d constructed lying in rubble at his feet. Raw. Exposed.

Emotion hit him without mercy, years of repression finally released. He threw himself at the journal like it was a lifeline, as if it could keep him afloat in the maelstrom his mind had become. He was a prisoner trapped with his own sins - if he could only set them loose, he had a chance at living.

Pages were filled with frantic jagged writing. Every silent scream etched in pencil. The women of Bitter Springs, their bodies in his sights, echoed with Carla in his sights, echoed with the Courier in his sights, when she’d approached Novac so long ago. Every time he had lashed out, pushed people away, every wound he’d inflicted. All the hate, the pain, the anger, pushed down until at last he’d vomited it all out onto paper.

Arcade, beseeching him for help with rising tensions in Freeside, trying to leverage the only contact in the NCR he had. The disappointment on the man’s face, parting words that cut.

_ “Having a death wish doesn’t mean you have to let the rest of the world die with you.” _

Veronica’s hand on his shoulder, eyes never quite losing their determined lustre. She’d found him some hours after Arcade had, waiting for the tram back to McCarran. All earnestness, though he knew her kindness was on the Courier’s behalf.

_ “Know what it’s like being part of something you don’t agree with. If you ever change your mind, find me with the Followers.” _

Worst was Cass. The caravaneer came to visit him only days after the end of his tour, McCarran another stop on her long and riding road. She’d approached him smiling, asked about the Courier, and left him with a blow to the face when he told her the Courier was dead. The words she flung at him were still lodged in his veins, tearing a wound more jagged with every remembrance.

_ “You let her leave. Fuck, you knew why she was leaving. You let her go. Alone. Ruining your own life wasn’t enough, was it? Did you think that the rest of us might have cared?” _

She’d nearly broken his jaw. Made it swell enough that he couldn’t speak for days. Now it was as if the pain had bloomed in full force, delayed.

Boone let it all wash over him, let himself be drowned in it. 

It was not the worst pain he’d felt in his life. The days after Carla’s death held that miserable title - terrible enough that they only softened into a death wish that lingered for years. 

Knowing that was all that kept him from placing his pistol in his mouth. He’d survived worse. He didn’t have faith that what was on the other side would be better - but it’d be different. It had to be. That was enough.

He read through the journal again, through the entries he’d skipped in the past for fear they’d rouse the emotion coursing through his veins once more.

Writing was never his strong suit. The sentences were simple, practical, flat observances of bland events. How their food stores were, how much water they had left, when they’d need to go scavenging next. 

As he reread, though, he noted the little sentences hinting at more. How the Courier had taken an impressive shot that day. How he’d seen a desert flower sprouting in the shade of a rock. The people they’d helped on the way.

There was a light in his life, once. After the worst, it came to him - a ghost from Gomorrah, bullet scar shining. Immortal, returning from Fortification Hill alive, returning from the Dam alive, returning from the Divide alive.

Light enough for him to realize the darkness he had fallen back into. But perhaps a sun would rise again. With the Courier, he’d managed to regain a shade of what he once was, for a moment in time. Maybe it could happen again.

Boone got up from the bed and stumbled to the bathroom. The mirror had long before been shattered, but for the first time in weeks he looked at his reflection in the remaining shards.

It was him. Always him. It wasn’t fate, wasn’t some great force balancing the scales, leveraging his debt. It was his own hate, his own guilt.  _ Self sabotage _ .

The man looking back at him wasn’t one he recognized. Wasn’t the man who’d murdered innocents at Bitter Springs. Wasn’t the man who’d married Carla. Wasn’t even the man who’d fallen in love with the Courier.

His hair had grown a couple of inches. His beard covered his jaw, shielded his face. Far past regulation length. No longer one of the NCR’s toy soldiers, either.

_ What was done was monstrous. But that doesn’t mean you have to continue to be a monster. _

Usanagi’s words lingered as he splashed water on his face.

\--

“You look better.”

It was Usanagi’s greeting for the next several sessions. He didn’t believe her, but he knew she believed it. With him finally embracing feeling once more, their appointments had become something akin to training sessions.

Instead of firing solutions, he learned coping mechanisms.

Meditation. Mindfulness. Self talk. 

He took her sleep aids, found that with normal sleep patterns the dreams began to fade. Pills like bullets, to win the war. His body fell into familiar steps, as if he was walking under the great blue sky with the Courier once more and resting when the sun did. Soothed itself.

Usanagi was right. With his complete breakdown, only then was he able to rebuild himself.

Their sessions shifted from weekly to biweekly. He filled his time volunteering at the clinic - sometimes hunting for medical supplies, other times taking out raiders that had lingered in the city ruins like stubborn weeds, preying on the weak. 

Time passed, and change came with it.

At first he barely noticed - how the needy lingering outside of the clinic started to taper off, the lines of worry starting to etch themselves in the faces of those remaining. He started to get an idea of what was happening when Gorobets himself deigned to visit the dingy motel room Boone now called home.

“You look better.” Gorobets echoed Usanagi, smiling at him when he crossed the threshold. A quick glance was hazarded around the motel room. He didn’t remove his coat. Wasn’t intending on a long visit, then.

Boone grunted in reply, standing a few feet away with his arms crossed. Somehow the statement coming from Gorobets’ lips discomforted him.

“The doctor wasn’t too forthcoming, so I thought I’d see for myself how you were doing.”

“Better.” Boone admitted, knowing that the other man wasn’t going to leave until he was satisfied.

“Good. I can’t stall much longer.”

“Stall?”

“The Followers’ continued presence in the area of Vegas is a destabilizing agent.” Gorobets explained. “I won’t say they don’t do good work, but they set a precedent that a power as spread out as ours can’t reach. NCR can’t afford to give medical attention for free. It’s making people miss the old days.”

“Can’t blame them.” Boone narrowed his eyes. It was a sentiment he shared. “Ousting them won’t go over well.”

Surprise flickered over Gorobets’ features. Wasn’t expecting Boone to put two and two together, clearly. “It’s better than letting them linger. We’ve got the OSI, have our own researchers. Followers aren’t worth the trouble. That’s what I’ve been told, in any case.”

“You disagree.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Gorobets exhaled. “I follow orders.”

Boone felt a muscle in his eye twitch, adrenaline sweeping through his veins. Were he the man of years past, he might have done something stupid.

Instead, he scowled.

“They’re good people.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Gorobets repeated. “Look, I’m thankful as you are for their help, but some things can’t last forever. We aren’t wiping them out, besides. Just… pointing them elsewhere.” He cleared his throat, trying to chase away the tension in the air. “The main reason I came was to ask if you’re feeling up to returning.”

Boone chewed at his lip. “Maybe.”

“Maybe’s not an answer, Boone.”

His scowl deepened. “I need more time.”

“Pay’s gonna run out in a couple weeks.” Gorobets shrugged. “You have that long to make a decision. After that, you’ll have to go through enlisting again.”

He grunted again.

Gorobets sighed, reaching for the door. “Eloquent as always.” He paused, hand on the knob. “Look, Boone. You’re a good man. A war hero. I’m not coming to antagonize you. The NCR will be poorer without you, is all.”

Boone smiled without humor. It felt alien on his face. The action seemed to unnerve Gorobets.

“They’ll live.”

His old commanding officer simply dipped his head, and shut the door behind him.

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

The day of the appointment was a grim anniversary. Three years since the Courier’s departure from the Mojave. Knowledge of it hung around Boone like a miasma as he began his usual pilgrimage from the motel to the clinic. 

He was thankful he’d have Usanagi to talk him through it. Something he couldn’t imagine ever feeling just a year ago. Reliance on someone else - a willingness to be reliant - was an idea foreign to his entire being. He refused it - with Manny, Carla, the Courier and her companions - refused to be so weak. Now, he knew he only ever made himself a paper tiger - so easily turned to ash at the slightest lick of flame.

Dust seemed to cling to the very air. It hadn’t rained in weeks - the occasional tumbleweed blew in from the desert, trespassing into the ruins of the city. He watched one blow down the pavement in front of him as he walked, aimless as his soul felt. Gorobets had given him a choice, months ago - get well, or find another job. Boone thought it ironic that, now he was on the track to being well, his desire to work with the NCR was waning. At first it was loyalty that had kept him, then a belief that the New California Republic was the Mojave's only hope of defeating the Legion. In recent years, though, it was only a grim sense of penance - or punishment - that had kept him in their ranks - and a fear of what else awaited him beyond.

Now, it seemed, the NCR was thrusting him into that beyond whether he liked it or not - driving away his source of aid just as he was learning how to be human again. He wasn't numb anymore. He knew what he'd done. What they expected him to do. The question was - did he stay to try and make them better, or do what he should have done after Bitter Springs and resign, wash his hands of the matter?

It seemed a monumental leap, when even allowing himself to feel was such a feat. He'd planned life to remain stagnant, wanted it that way - to never live beyond the same world Carla had lit up, to never see anything she hadn't the chance to, never see what the Legion - and he - had robbed her of.

But it was a little late for that now.

The courtyard of the clinic’s building was empty of those in need. Now, the only denizen was an armed guard at the door, metal armor and plasma rifle in hand. Hired gun, by the looks of it. She stared straight ahead, expression pure boredom. It was quiet - the Followers banner had been taken down, no longer fluttered in the wind. All he could hear was the rustle of sand blown across the pavement and the creaking of old metal.

It was only a matter of time before any trace of what the clinic had been wiped clean, replaced with some great project of the NCR. For a moment, Boone wondered if this too was fate - a source of good in his life smothered. He eyed the door guard cautiously as he approached. She took one look at his beret and waved him in.

All that remained in the clinic were a few boxes of medical equipment and the furniture that had been present for centuries. Usanagi sat at one of the couches, without her labcoat - dressed instead in a faded blouse and a long skirt. 

"I hope you'll excuse the informality." Usanagi began apologetically, when Boone had paused in his tracks. "I thought I'd have enough time for our last appointment to be somewhat normal, but unfortunately we've had to accelerate our plans." Her gaze flickered to his beret, and for the first time he felt strange for wearing it.

"I've been told." Boone murmured, staring down at one of the boxes. "You need help moving?"

"Once we're done, if you'd like." 

"What, are we doing it here?"

"If you'd like. Or we could go on a walk."

Boone nodded. "Walk sounds better." He didn't like spaces like this - places where life used to be. They felt emptier than the old husks abandoned since the war.

He followed her back out into the desert sun, watched her retrieve sunglasses from her pocket and place them on. She glanced over at him as they started to walk down the gravel.

"Do you still wear them inside?"

It took him a moment to realize she meant his glasses. He shrugged.

"If it's too bright. Didn't just take up night sniping because I liked the solitude." Boone kicked a pebble down the road. "But not when I don't need to. Not anymore."

Usanagi beamed at that, in surprisingly good spirits seeing as how she just lost her office. "Good. And when you have those moments of panic, you-"

"Watch my breathing. Count to ten. Remember where I am." he finished.

"Good."

"When you're gone, I guess…"

"Our sessions won't be able to continue." Usanagi finished for him, returning the favor. Her smile faded. "That's the truth, I fear. I don't know where I'll be sent next, where the winds will blow."

"Don't suppose you could give me a hint."

"I would, but I don’t know myself. It might be a long way to follow. Boone, I'll be honest - you have the tools you need, now. There's nothing that I can give that others can't."

Boone frowned. "I can't talk like this to people if it isn't their job to listen. And if the Followers leave, the only people with that job will be in the NCR."

"Do you not trust them?"

"Of fucking course I don't." he spat. "They've got a motive. For one reason or another, they want me in. They won't tell me what I need to hear. They'll tell me what I want to hear."

"You've had a change of heart."

"Change of mind." Boone shook his head. "Heart's still caught up in it."

"In the NCR?"

He nodded again. "Still believe in the dream. Or I wish it was true. Might be willing to work to make it true."

Usanagi looked at him for a few moments, lips pressed together as she tried to find tactful words. "You act as though you think there's another option."

"Had a taste of it." he admitted. "With the Courier. Could be a mercenary. Hired gun." Boone looked over his shoulder at the figure of the door guard fading into the distance. "Did that sort of thing for the Followers. Could do it again."

"You'd have to leave the Mojave, if you came with us."

Boone let out a deep sigh. Another one of his lies, a tower built of denial, crumbling at the base. He might as well let it fall to the sand like so many others. "Left the Mojave two and a half years ago when we cleaned up the Legion. Never dared to before. But I dared to for her."

It grabbed Usanagi's interest quickly - his tales of the Courier had grown rare, offhanded mentions - much of his healing had been focused on Carla. "For the Courier?"

"Wanted to find her." The words rolled out thickly, a lump forming in his throat. "Killing legionnaires was the only thing I was good at, so I figured maybe… I could kill my way to her. As if I'd be rewarded for so much death."

Usanagi blinked. "So when you came back from tour-"

"I hadn't found her. But I found my answer.” Dead. Death, for death. Only answer he should have expected. “And was on your doorstep pretty fast."

"Hm." she hummed sympathetically, but prodded no further.

"So. Yeah, I've left the Mojave. Can do it. Don't think Carla would like my being so stubborn about it. Think it was her least favorite part of me." He could talk about her again, he was beginning to realize. There wasn't such a sharpness in his chest - knowing the truth of what he did had nearly killed him, but it let him feel as if he'd kill her all over again if he let her memory die. He owed her that. "She wanted to head west, anyways. Move to the Hub."

"I'm not saying this just to seem impartial in the matter." Usanagi prefaced. "But - I think it would be best for you to give things some thought. Talk to others about it. There's a chance for you to do good whatever path you take."

"I don't have others to talk to."

"No?" she raised an eyebrow, though her eyes were kind. "You mentioned friends before."

"The people who traveled with the Courier weren't-" He cut himself off immediately, knowing it was a lie the second he'd opened his mouth. "They aren't friends anymore."

It was a conclusion she seemed to be waiting for him to come to. "You mentioned a desire to redeem yourself. I prefer the phrase making amends."

The thought settled in his mind. "You want me to try and track them down?"

"If you think it won't distress them or cause them harm, I believe it would help you. Show them the man you are now, and perhaps that will be all they need to see."

"I'm scared." he admitted bluntly - he'd found it easiest to be plain about his feelings, as brutal as he'd ever been. It felt strangely powerful. "They've got a lot of reasons to hate me."

"Give them a reason to care." She held his gaze. The wind blew, but not a strand of her neat chignon budged. 

He looked over at the southern horizon, where city ruins turned to sunbaked sand. "I can try. I… I don't know how long I'll be able to keep this up."

"It's not a performance, Boone." Usanagi said gently. "It should be natural. You're a stronger man than you give yourself credit for. If you want something - truly want it - I believe you'll make great strides. Just remember what we've talked about."

He folded his arms, knowing now that he did it when he felt exposed. Weak. "It'll take longer than the two weeks the NCR will pay me to find them."

"Are you worried about caps, or trying to avoid things?"

A beat of silence. "Trying to avoid things." It was funny - once he'd started to admit the truth, it just started to flow. Maybe it was natural, after all.

"The NCR will still be here when you get back." Usanagi added, unable to hide the wrinkle of distaste in her brow. "I'm certain of that, if nothing else. Ah, here we are."

They had circled the few ruined city blocks and returned to the clinic. Usanagi fished an old silver pocket watch out of her lab coat and checked the time.

"Well." she breathed. "I won't say this is our last session. I hope it is. But I hope this isn't our last meeting." She held out her hand.

He took it, and found her handshake surprisingly strong. The woman, while small, was made of iron.

"Thank you." Boone found it somewhat hard to speak suddenly, realizing that this was the end of yet another chapter in his life. Another part of the journal finished.

"Thank _you_." she countered. "You remind me that there's still hope." 

"Could say the same about you."

If nothing else - if not for Carla, if not for the Courier, if not for the innocents at Bitter Springs - Boone would ensure the rest of his life was put to good purpose to repay Dr. Usanagi. 

The doctor waved at the door guard as they approached, who quickly propped open the clinic door.

"Would you still like to help? We've hired a few Brahmin and joined a caravan train, we just need to haul these last few boxes over."

They were painted ammo boxes, he realized - their original purpose wiped away, now small enough to be strapped onto a Brahmin. Bullets traded for bandages.

Maybe there was a message there.

He nodded, and Usanagi smiled wider than he'd ever seen.

"Wonderful. I should introduce you - Boone, this is Leah, my… bodyguard." she gestured to the armored mercenary, who smiled - revealing a missing front tooth. "Leah, Boone."

Boone grunted in greeting, and Leah did the same.

Together, he, the doctor, and the hired gun grabbed the boxed remnants of the Followers of the Apocalypse in New Vegas and made their way down the broken road.

Maybe one day the clinic would bustle with life again. For now, it was left as barren as his heart was when he first arrived.

They made slow progress - Usanagi's breathing suggested this kind of work wasn't a frequent activity for her, and Leah glanced over on occasion, brow knit in concern. When they passed by his motel on the way to the caravan company yard, he held up a hand, and Usanagi seemed thankful for the break.

All three of them gathered in the shade of the motel sign.

“My room’s here.” Boone explained, chewing the inside of his cheek for a brief moment, tongue hesitant to spit the phrase out. “I… one of the people I should meet again ran with caravans. Figure it’s a good start. Want to grab my things.”

Usanagi dabbed at her forehead with a cloth retrieved from her pocket, and nodded. Her smile was weaker from fatigue, but genuine nevertheless. “Go ahead. Leah, do you mind letting me have a sip from your canteen?”

Boone saw Usanagi’s fingers brush over Leah’s when the canteen was passed over in the corner of his eye. He hurried his pace to the motel.

When he pushed the door open (the hinges sticking as always) he looked upon the room that had housed him for the past months with new eyes, intent on leaving it behind at last. Now he could see it for what it was - degraded, sparse, utilitarian - a reflection of himself. Free, the only cost his safety, his comfort. His humanity. The kind of place he and the Courier would take to only in a sand or radstorm, the kind of place infinitely inferior to nights under the stars.

He was looking forward to sleeping in the wilderness again.

Going through the room didn’t take long. His belongings were few, stashed under the floorboards or in a hole in the wall he’d dragged the dresser over. A pack full of ammo, a few tools, a tied sack of caps, and preserved food. The journal. He unslung his rifle from his shoulders and tossed it onto the bed, hauled his body armor out from the hole in the wall and started to strap it on.

Besides his gun, it was his most valuable possession. A recent one. As he fastened ties and buckles, he wondered if its acquisition wasn’t the first sign of his change.

They’d picked it up at McCarran, after the return to Bitter Springs. The Courier was rewarded by the NCR for some favor, and glanced over at him when told to visit the quartermaster. When she mentioned feeling overdressed in comparison to him, he picked up on her implication and left in the very armor he was strapping on.

The first admission that maybe he wanted to live after all. The Courier was willing to die for him. The least he could do was live for her - as long as she relied on him to watch her back.

It was his reasoning, at the time.

Regret hung heavy in his chest as he tightened the last strap on his armor. If he’d only gotten help then, if he hadn’t wasted so many years, maybe…

But maybes didn’t change the present. Regret wouldn’t make things better.

He grabbed the journal and flipped it open, tore out a blank page and scribbled down a note; reminding himself to drop it off at the post office by the caravan yards.

_Lieutenant -_

_Still need time. Going somewhere else to think. I’ll tell you my answer when I’m back. If I make it back._

_You’ve been one of the good ones._

_\- Boone_

His fingers folded the paper in half. As he tucked it into his pack next to the journal, he let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, and froze. A thought stuck him. He wasn’t the 1st Recon Sniper anymore. Wasn’t really anything anymore.

He took his beret from his head and let it join the journal. Having it on his head didn't feel right anymore. As he stared at the red velvet, he remembered it contrasted against thick locks of dark hair.

Boone slung his pack and rifle back over his shoulders and made for the door. He didn’t know what awaited him down the road - if he’d ever find the people he was looking for, who’d grown far flung in the Courier’s absence - but he couldn’t stay any longer.

Was it how the Courier felt, all those years ago?


	7. Chapter 7

The caravan office was bustling.

Where only a few years ago it was near silent, only smatterings of caravans able to make it through the Mojave Outpost reaching the Vegas yards, now it was teeming with life and promise. Merchants excited at the prospect of a stable Vegas, of yet more frontier stretching eastward. He stood in line, the hum of conversation surrounding him and causing him to retreat back to his thoughts.

For a moment - after he’d watched the Followers caravan and Usanagi disappear on the northern horizon and posted his letter to Lieutenant Gorobets - he felt a pang of fear. Boone was on his own now, more than ever before - no NCR, no doctor. He had no orders, his only goal tracking down the few former travelling companions whose whereabouts he had any clue of.

Fear ran in his veins, but it was tempered by a strange eagerness. With a jolt he realized he’d felt it before.

_ Sixteen with his pack slung over his shoulders, taking one last glance back at the house he’d grown up in. _

Boone hoped that this time a decade of darkness wouldn’t consume him.

“Sir?”

Someone pushed at his back. The line had moved, he hadn’t noticed - and he was next. Awkwardly he stepped up to the counter and the bored looking clerk behind it.

“Sorry.” Boone murmured, dipping his head apologetically. “Looking for information on Cassidy Caravans' movements.”

The clerk - a young man - sighed, pulling a ledger out from beneath the counter and setting it down atop it, disturbing a small cloud of dust. “Cassidy Caravans. Most exciting thing to happen ‘round here in awhile, that mess.” He mused, dragging his finger down the pages of what was essentially a glorified guestbook.

Boone shrugged, silent. He rested his hip against the counter as the clerk searched, snippets of rumor reaching his ears from the others waiting in line.

_ “Hear there was a blight.” “Been rumors of a food shortage for years.” “If you ask me, Legion’s still out there. I’m not fucking with the east.” _

“Ah.” The clerk’s exclamation drew his attention back to the matter at hand. “Most recent one left a couple weeks ago. Headed for Kingman.”

The name was one Boone recalled, though it took some time to remember  _ where _ he’d heard it. Trawling through memory he realized he’d seen rather than heard the name - remembered water towers emblazoned with the town name.

“That’s south. Arizona.”

With an attitude that suggested the clerk was barely out of his teens, the young man rolled his eyes. “Heart of the Eastern Frontier.” It was stated as if it was a well known fact, and Boone wondered how long he’d been distanced from reality. History marched onward, even as he tried to cling to the past. “Looks like the owner headed out with ‘em.” The clerk turned the ledger around so Boone could give it a look.

Surely enough, amidst the short list of names one stood clear.

_ Rose of Sharon Cassidy. March 10th, 2285. _

“You got anyone else heading that way?”

This time the clerk managed to temper his annoyance. “Got a fair few caravans heading out that way, yeah. Early birds making the rush. Legion didn’t manage to burn the place down on their way out, so if you’re looking to do some prospecting you’ll make a fair living.” The man glanced at the rifle at Boone’s back and the beaten pack hanging beneath it. “Same goes for mercenary work. People always looking for someone to guard their claims. You want me to set you up with a caravan?”

“Appreciate it.” 

\--

Work was never too hard to find when you had a rifle at your back and body armor that’d seen action. Not quite as easy as when 1st Recon's red velvet adorned his head, but close enough. People didn’t ask too many questions - even if their eyes were suspicious.

Boone was thankful for it. He’d been saddled with a supply train carrying seeds, food, and a few tools to the so-called Heart of the Eastern Frontier - and it was one that had made the journey many times before, from what he could gather. There was a sleepiness to the caravaneers, a dull boredom with each step, not particularly excited or eager for the sights that awaited. The other guards kept their eyes on the horizon, but they were just as bored as the rest.

It wasn’t like traveling with the Courier. The silence wasn’t a comfortable one, the words exchanged simple commands; calls to dinner or first watch. 

Still, it was good to be back on the road. Something about putting one foot in front of the other made him feel as if he had a purpose.

Out on the frontier - the real frontier, what before he only caught in the shadows cast by New Vegas’ lights - the world held a strange glimmer of hope. Tarps were hung in burned out old farmhouses, homesteaders cautiously staking their claim in territory once held by the Legion. The Bull had tried to salt the earth in its retreat, burning and irradiating whatever they could - but with Caesar and the Legate dead, organized efforts fell through quickly.

Scavenged red tents stood stark against the desert soil, ignited flares of memory and found his hand moving to his rifle. Occupied by former slaves and smatterings of tribal diaspora, over time embroidery had begun to appear on the red cloth, woven tales of history. Shells of a nation defeated, remnants and reminders of how close the brink had come.

Close indeed it was - he’d noticed it when his tour had first begun, the sprawling settlements and tent cities of the Legion’s mass of tribes. Organization and orderliness not found even in the heart of the NCR. Beaten paths so straight they felt nearly alien.

A fallen empire. Another husk to join the ruins of the world before the war. Arcade had mentioned something about history repeating itself, years ago. He couldn’t force himself to care. 

They slept under the stars, lit by the moon and faint firelight. Boone laid on his back, heat radiating from the earth beneath him even in twilight, baked by the sun. He stared up at the constellations, the infinite spray of light, and fell into memory. 

_ Starlight reflected in those deep brown eyes. Guitar chords drifting from her pip-boy. She hummed along, swaying where she sat. A quiet smile playing on her lips. _

_ “Suppose we’re both night people.” she’d said. “Good. Some things are better left in the dark.” _

\--

It took just over a week to make it to Kingman. The city sat on a plateau, the latter half of the journey was entirely uphill, cresting a slow incline. A collapsed arch over the highway was their first sight of civilization, the welcome sign upon it battered and faded, though the byline was still partially legible.

_ 'The Heart of' _

Seemed like the town’s other title wasn’t pure propaganda cooked up by the NCR’s settlement initiatives. Whatever the town was the heart of before the war, now it was a symbol of the frontier.

Boone faltered as they entered the town, resolve weakened. All at once the absurdity of his goal struck him. The last time he’d seen Cass she’d nearly broken his jaw with her fist. He’d travelled days and might just be rewarded with her putting a bullet in him for his trouble. He’d come so far to  _ apologize _ . It sounded ludicrous. What if she wasn’t even there? Had gone on somewhere else, or already turned around to head back to California? 

_ No. _

He was starting to learn how to recognize the sabotage, the traitorous nature of his own mind. Cass and the others - they were loose threads that’d strangle him if left unattended, bleeding vessels that’d leave him dead. Worst case scenario, he’d be driven away after speaking his part, the matter resolved in one way or another. Best case scenario - well. Maybe he’d have that support system Usanagi was always talking about. If he couldn’t find any of them, he’d have to rely on his own newfound willpower.

Boone was plotting out a method of attack when reality struck him dumb. As the group rounded a large boulder and the caravan yard on the town outskirts came into view, he was greeted by the sight of a familiar straw hat seated on locks of copper hair, shielding a pale face from the harsh sunlight.

He’d thought it a case of mistaken identity at first. Gingers weren’t a dying breed, whatever Veronica giggled about when she read pre-war texts. But as his caravan drew closer and the brahmin were shuffled into an empty pen, his luck was undeniable.

A rose pendant catching the sunlight. Well worn jeans. Inquisitive eyes, currently occupied with a clipboard in hand. She leaned against the worn wooden fencing, murmuring calculations aloud, adding up profits and subtracting costs. 

Cass looked up, eyes falling on him and the caravan he travelled with. 

She looked back down at her clipboard. She didn't recognize him. Or didn't care. 

Boone stared, trying to formulate an introduction. His attention was drawn away only when a merchant tapped his shoulder.

"Hey. Got your pay."

A small bag of caps was nudged his way. He took it, shoved it somewhere in his pack. 

"Thanks-" When he turned to thank the merchant, they were already gone.

Cass was looking at him again, though this time her gaze was stormy.

_ Shit. _

Her boots dug into the gravel as she stomped over, clipboard held tightly in her right hand. Good sign. She punched worse with her left. He could smell the drink on her as she approached - never quite sober, if she had anything to say about it.

"Motherfucker." Cass' greeting was bit between clenched teeth, recognition dawning on her features as she drew closer. "Now you're big on leaving Nevada, huh?" 

She hadn't hit him, but she may as well have for all the damage her words did.

"Yeah." he replied quietly, gently enough to take Cass off guard. In their last meeting he had argued, his temper riled just as much as hers. Now he knew only her anger was justified. "Maybe it's too little too late."

"Maybe." Cass agreed, her scowl obvious. "Now that there's caps in it you want to play at travelling, that it? Couldn't have done it when people relied on you, though."

"Not here because of caps." He had to keep his breathing even, grappling with his temper, trying to avoid the instinct to lash out in an attempt to distract from how much she was wounding him.

“Bullshit. Only reason anyone comes here.”

“Came looking for you.” Boone cut her off before she could get herself any more furious. If there was one thing he learned in his travels with Cass - the woman ran on anger. Anger and an unhealthy amount of whiskey.

The statement was enough to blunt her anger, if only for a moment. “The fuck you’re looking for me for? Is-”

“Not about the Courier.” He swallowed. “Not entirely.” The fear had intensified, crawling through his limbs, making his tongue feel clumsy. He didn’t know what words were best to say. Boone glanced around their surroundings for some sort of guide, finding only the prying eyes of bored caravan hands. “Bad place to talk. There a saloon around here?” He jumped on the only thing he knew Cass seemed to appreciate. “I’ll buy you a drink.” The Courier had a way of reading people, figuring things out - but while he had a keen eye for danger, he was useless in situations like these. 

Fury returned to Cass’ eyes.

Worse than useless, maybe.

“Oh. I get it.” Her voice was low, dangerous, the rattle of a nightstalker’s tail. “Play nice and polite. I’m  _ easy _ , quick tumble in bed and you’ll get what you need from me. That what you tried pulling with her? Lead her on, got yourself a big fancy fuckin’ medal, and let her go die out in the wastes somewhere.”

She was drunker than he’d first thought. The Whiskey Rose in full bloom. 

“Don’t.” he warned, his ability to rein in his temper fast failing him.

“You fucked her and  _ left _ .” Cass hissed. “I’ll say whatever the fuck I damn well please.”

Boone clenched his hands into fists, the edges of his vision blurring with his anger. He didn’t care about the gawking caravan hands anymore - or the attention that their raised voices were gathering. “I didn’t.”

“You  _ did _ .” Cass jabbed at his chest with her finger. “Big party, woo, Legion’s dead - don’t think I didn’t see you two slip out of there.” She hadn’t thrown the accusation at him before - was too busy reeling from news of the Courier’s demise - but it seemed like in the months since she’d had time to dwell, nursing her rage. “Found her in the 38’s presidential suite half dressed with a cigarette in her hands and a hickey the size of a silver dollar on her collarbone. Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining.”

“I didn’t.” He repeated, trying to swallow his fury. Speaking more than a few words at a time was proving difficult. “Wanted to. Didn’t. Stopped it.”

Cass’ fury was tempered by newfound suspicion. She must have been expecting him to get angry, to prove her right - and the lack of response had her suddenly doubting her own preconceptions. “Don’t lie to me. Tale as old as time. Soldiers get a little too drunk on victory and booze, and next thing you know they’re falling onto a mattress with the nearest warm body. I’d be happy for you if you picked anyone but her.” Despite the venom with which she spoke, guilt colored her features when she was done.

Boone stared at her, clenching his jaw. “You knew me, Cass.” The subject of his past was impossible to avoid among those that travelled with the Courier, despite his best attempts. A dead wife and rumors of Bitter Springs. 

She dropped her gaze at last, heaving a sigh. “Yeah. Went too far there.” She spit on the ground and placed her hands on her hips - still glaring at him, but looking a little less like she was contemplating shooting him. “Still. Shit thing to do.”

“I know.” he exhaled, unable to look her in the eye any longer.

_ That _ took her aback. For as long as they’d known each other, he’d responded to her needling with anger or brutal silence. Agreement - admission of fault - was an alien reaction. Her expression went slack.

“What’d you come here for, Boone?”

“To apologize.” 

Cass scoffed, but the tension in her posture faded. “Going to be here a long fuckin’ while, then.” She looked him over, appraisingly. “You can get started by paying for my drinks. C’mon. I’ll show you around.”

\--

Kingman, Boone soon discovered, was referred to as ‘The Heart’ by most of the prospectors who’d settled in. Part of it was tongue in cheek, a sarcastic take on the NCR’s attempts to romanticize the area - but as Cass explained, the town was a hub between numerous points of interest that made the nickname a practical one.  


“Beale Springs not far from here, water there’s still clean. Probably passed it on your way in if you came through Boulder City. Old military base a stone’s throw to the east with a bunker no one’s managed to bust into yet. Lot of gossip about that. And northeast you have the Canyon, but people steer clear of it. Bad rumors 'round that place. Ghost stories if you ask me.” 

She’d always been most comfortable chatting about locales, sights seen. Boone let her talk, figuring that at last it was time he caught up with the present.

“You go even further east and there’s Peach Springs. Used to be a big tribe set up there from what the locals say, ‘til the Legion went and fucked that up. Don’t know if there’s any of them left anymore. A few Followers of the Apocalypse posted themselves up there, last I heard.”

That caught his attention. “The Followers are pushing east?”

“They’ve gotta go north or east if they’re trying to get out of the NCR’s hair.” Cass shrugged. “What, you looking to join up?” She raised a brow, glancing over at him as they walked down the cracked pavement of The Heart’s main street. 

“Maybe.” he muttered. “Looking for people, first.”

Understanding dawned on Cass’ features. “Arcade and Veronica. You trying for a reunion tour?”

Boone shook his head. “No. Just closure. Making amends.” The sun was drawing to its peak in the sky, beating down with enough intensity that even he was looking forward to a trip to the saloon.

“Hmph.” she snorted. “Good luck with that. Ah - and here we are.”

She gestured at an old hotel sitting on a block corner, old even pre-war. Pink stucco was buried under aged graffiti, and letters propped up on the roof read HOTEL BEALE - AIR COOLED.

“It’s a piece of shit, but they don’t water down their drinks.” Cass explained, the establishment’s wooden door sticking as she tried to open it. She had to throw her weight into getting the damn thing open.

“Courier said you had a talent for finding the best hole in the walls.” he murmured, realizing too late that mention of the Courier was a bad subject with Cass.

Thankfully, she only grinned. “Courier was damn right.” 

The inside of the old hotel was nicer than the exterior thanks to some post-war love, though it wasn’t saying much. The wooden floor creaked and groaned with their every step. It was drafty, the boards over shattered windows having sizable gaps between them. The bar was wooden, untreated and faded to grey - but the selection of bottles behind it was impressive. A ghoul stood behind the counter, absently wiping at a glass.

Despite the dilapidated building it was surprisingly busy. The stools at the bar were filled by prospectors, straw hats and work gloves set down next to their drinks. A few tables were taken up by caravaneers, throwing their pay at liquor before they had to make the long haul back. A handful of caravan guards sat at a booth by the door playing cards, metal armor clinking with every hand dealt.

Cass sauntered up to the bar with her usual confidence, ignoring the glances some patrons cast her way. Boone found himself the subject of attention by a few of them, peering between him and her. Gossip was in short supply in small towns. He knew that from Novac.

“Whiskey. Leave the bottle.” she told the bartender, who sighed in that rasping way ghouls did and set the glass he was cleaning on the bartop. Cass looked back at Boone, expectantly.

He took the pouch of caps he’d been paid for working caravan escort and set them next to the glass. “Might as well get me a glass. You rent rooms here?”

The ghoul raised a ruined brow. “Single or double?”

Cass snickered. 

“Single.” Boone answered.

“Breaking my heart.” Cass teased, grabbing her bottle of whiskey as soon as the bartender produced it and scurrying off to a booth in the corner.

Boone watched the ghoul count his caps out. He took all but a dozen, and slid a key over. “There’s your change, smoothskin.”

It was highway robbery - half the price of a room on the Strip, and if the room was anything like the bar it was worth maybe a sixth of the price. It was to be expected, though - he was a newcomer with a rifle that was worth more than most prospectors made in a month. Price gouging came with the territory. Luckily for the proprietor of the Hotel Beale, Boone didn’t care to haggle.

“Thanks.” he muttered.

“Lobby’s down the hall.” The ghoul gestured to a battered wooden door. “Take the stairs up. Room number’s on the key.”

Boone took his glass and grabbed the key. A faded “6” was carved into it. For a moment he wondered if fate existed after all.

He stepped away from the bar and joined Cass in the secluded booth. She’d made herself comfortable, leaning back with her arms stretched out across the back of the booth, whiskey tumbler balanced in one hand. Her hat sat on the worn cushion at her side. She took a sip as he settled into the booth across from her.

“Now that I’ve got some fire in my gut and can deal with the answer.” she began, cutting straight to the chase. “The fuck’s gotten into you? Feel like you’re going to tell me you’re a long lost twin or something. Know it’s been a while, but I barely recognize you. I don’t just mean the hair.” She flapped her hand lazily at him. “Though it’s a good look on you. Big improvement.” A smirk.

Boone grabbed the bottle of whiskey on the table, ignoring Cass’ noise of protest and splashing some of the amber liquid into his own glass. “I got help.”

“Yeah?” Cass looked skeptical. “Seem to recall the Courier trying that with you. Didn’t take.” 

He took a larger swig than he’d originally intended, trying to blunt the sharpness of her words. “It took a while to take, but it did. Was doing shit work with the NCR. They told me to get help or get out. Doctor said it had to be me who wanted help for things to work, though, so…” 

“So you listened to her, in the end.” 

“Yeah.”

She canted her head to the side, still holding him in some suspicion. “You got better enough for the NCR to take you back in, then. I don’t believe that shit about making amends. You’re here for a reason, and I’m sure the Bear’s got something to do with it.”

“I let my contract expire.”

Cass nearly snorted her whiskey through her nose. She cursed, nearly dropping her glass as she wiped at her nose desperately. He waited until she regained her composure before continuing.

“I meant what I said.” He took another sip of whiskey for courage. “Look, Cass - you’re right. I’ve got a lot of things to apologize for. Can’t fix most of them. All I can do is try to make sure I don’t keep doing the same thing. Was doing it for years. Don’t know if the NCR’s my best bet for making a better start.” 

He was met with silence. Cass was staring at him with an intensity he’d only ever seen when she was dealing with the matter of her caravan - it was the expression she wore when trying to ferret out the truth.

“The Courier’s dead.” He’d meant to say it flatly, but his voice cracked midway through. Another sip of whiskey. “You’re right. Was too much of a coward to follow her. Maybe I could’ve done something out there. I didn’t. Tried to run from it. Couldn’t. I robbed you of a friend. Know they’ve been in short supply for us both.”

“You did.” Cass spoke at last, bitterly. “Robbed her of her happiness too, you know.”

“I know.”

Minutes of silence passed. They didn’t look at each other, staring at the wood grain in the table and walls. Cass drained her glass before speaking again.

“I asked her if she regretted it once, you know.” she drawled, voice quieter. Her gaze was far away, lost in memory. “I mean, it was obvious those couple weeks ‘fore the Dam. You two were more skittish ‘round each other than brahmin in a deathclaw nest.” She rested her elbows on the table, leaning forward a bit. “I said to her, ‘Courier, if you’re sick of the shit I can take you out on the Strip and get us both some action.’ You know what she said?”

“You should’ve taken her out.” Boone replied, his own tongue thick from whiskey. “Might’ve ended better.”

“She said it wasn’t about filling some void. Checking off a box. Said she just wanted you. Didn’t care if she got fucked or not, just wanted to be there.” Cass snorted and leaned back once more. “Didn’t know what was so special about a dumbass like you, but now - look, I’m probably just saying this ‘cause I’m a few shots deep. Know you won’t read into it, so don’t know why I’m giving this shit disclaimer, but - the fucker I see in front of me? I get it. This what you were hiding from the rest of us?”

“Was hiding it from her, too.” he admitted. “Scared of her knowing me. But. She had a way of seeing people.”

“She did.” Cass sighed, her brow wrinkling with sadness. “Fucking shame, all of it. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t started the business back up. Maybe if I went with her…” 

It hurt to see his own pain reflected in someone else. Cass and the Courier were close despite the difference in age - he’d known of their sisterly relationship in the back of his mind, but the weight of it hadn’t hit him until that moment. The ripple effect. He wasn’t the only one who was hurting. He wasn’t the only one who mourned.

“Doesn’t matter now, I guess.” Cass filled her glass back up with whiskey, and gestured for him to put his glass down to do the same. “You’re still a dick, but at least you know it. Can appreciate that. Appreciate you being able to give me a straight fuckin’ answer for once, too.” She glanced at the room key, sitting on the table near his glass. “You plan on sticking around?”

“For a bit.” Boone didn’t address what passed for compliments, coming from Cass. “Figure I’ll head over to that Followers outpost. See if they know anything about the others.”

She nodded, fingers tapping against her glass. “I’ve got to trek my ass back to the Hub to resupply. Been running water like a human river. Get myself somewhere nice when I retire.”

“Suppose this is it, then.”

“For a while.” Cass shrugged. “Hard to hate a man after he’s admitted he was wrong and you’re right.” That smirk returned. “It’s a small world. Growing smaller every day. Until then, though…” she raised her glass. “To the Courier. May the next fucker who comes along be half as good.”

Boone tapped his glass against hers. “To the Courier.”

\--

They’d sat drinking until the sun set, draining a whiskey bottle between them. Even drunker than he’d ever been he was quiet, but he chuckled along at Cass’ antics and stories of the road. He’d come back from taking a piss to find her leaning against a particularly wide shouldered caravan guard, and left her to her own devices.

He left the saloon just as it came alive; locals, prospectors, and caravaneers alike piling in. As instructed, he pushed open the door to the lobby and stumbled his way to the stairs. The lobby was in worse shape than the saloon, stairs half rotted and wallpaper peeling away, the scent of mold and dust strong. It was dark, lit only by a single kerosene lamp set on the old reception counter. Slowly he ascended the stairs, a more difficult task than he’d thought in his inebriated state.

Room six was at the end of the hall, illuminated by shafts of moonlight spilling in through a boarded up window. He fumbled with the key, but eventually managed to unlock the door and push it open.

The room was bare. A stained mattress was tossed onto a metal bed frame. Across from it a dresser with half the drawers missing was pushed up against the wall. He locked the door and tossed his pack to the foot of the bed before embarking on the long - and exceptionally more difficult - task of removing his armor.

He was reminded why he only drank to forget as he clumsily undid the various clasps, cursing all the while. By the time he’d freed himself, even the questionable mattress looked appealing. Boone collapsed upon it, enjoying the sensation of cool air on his skin as he stared up at the paint peeling off the ceiling.

Faint traces of laughter and music drifted up through the hotel floorboards, the reverie of the saloon echoing to the second floor. It was oddly soothing - or perhaps the alcohol had dulled his senses enough not to mind. As Boone found his consciousness fading, the music carried him into the past.

\--

It all felt surreal. Dreamlike. Between the gleeful shouts and chatter of the crowd, the swelling music crackling through old speakers, and the liquor in his veins it was like he’d been transported to another time. Relief surged through everyone like a drug, made everything feel weightless. The Legion was driven back for the final time. The Dam was retaken. The NCR had co-opted the Tops as their center of celebration.

In Boone’s arms was the woman who’d done it all. The Courier.

Cass had shoved the Courier towards him, daring her to dance. She’d looked at him with a question in her eyes, and he’d taken her hand. It’d been years since he danced, his steps were clumsy - but so were hers, and together they managed some sort of rhythm. Cass hollered in appreciation, but soon she was lost to the crowd - everything else blurred. All he could see was the Courier,  _ beaming, _ bourbon on her breath and her eyes fixed on his.

When the music slowed, they drew closer, mimicking the other pairs on the dance floor. He felt young again, dumbstruck, holding something precious in his hands. He wasn’t able to follow the train of thought to the dark end it always had, led astray by her slipping her arms around his shoulders and alcohol keeping things hazy.

Close. Too close. He’d tried to keep distance between them in their travels, was failing at it in recent weeks, but now it was shattered. In this window of time, seperate from the world, his defenses fell apart.

The Courier must have seen his discomfort, for her smile faltered. She leaned in close to his ear to speak so he could hear, breath warm against his neck.

“Do you want to leave?”

She was asking him if he wanted to let her go, he knew. A question within a question. His mind followed at face value, though, an implication blooming in his mind. A growl tore its way out of his throat. Boone nodded dumbly, his hands pawing at her waist.  _ With you _ . 

The message he was giving was clear. Her smile returned, but he felt her tremble in his arms. “Come on.” She put a brave face on her nerves, and together they wove their way through the crowd and stepped out into the cool Mojave air.

The Strip was just as packed as the Tops, though the crowds were more colorful. They caught snatches of drunken song, glanced up as someone found a flare gun and fired into the air, shimmering bright red beacons trying to compete with flashing neon. It didn’t feel real - and that was what kept him holding onto her hand, both of them leading each other toward the towering Lucky 38.

Silence consumed them when they entered. The place was as empty as it’d been for decades, as it was long before the Courier’s arrival. She’d mentioned thinking about running the place herself once - but both of them knew her wanderlust made that an impossibility.

They made a rush for the elevator - maybe she was as aware as he was how tenuous this was, rare as Mojave rain and just as precious. She turned to face him as the elevator made its ascent. The close confines were sobering - the two of them stared at each other, realizing what they were about to do.

The doors opened to the presidential suite. She stepped backwards into it, leading him to the bed, their hands still entangled.

Moonlight spilled onto the bed through the floor length windows, along with the faint glow of neon bright enough to reach so high. The Courier paused, her back to the wall, and lifted her hand to his cheek to gently pull his attention back to her.

“I want this. If you want this.”

Boone couldn’t look her in the eye, couldn’t kiss her lips. It’d overtake him, burn him. Instead, he buried his face against her neck, but it was all the more dangerous - her scent enveloped him, earth and desert herbs and sweat. He kissed her neck, tasting the salt on her skin, needing more. 

He nearly ripped her blouse open trying to get at her collarbone, and she pulled it off of her body with haste. With her skin exposed he was lost to her - he ran his tongue down to her shoulder like a wild dog, lapping up what he was offered. Felt her pulse fluttering beneath his lips, her chest rising with increasingly frantic breaths, pushing against him, vibrating with a moan. His touch was clumsy, devouring - he was enraptured, caught in between worlds. He kissed his way up and down her collarbone, growing rough - brushed his teeth against her skin. For so long he’d wanted this, dreamed of it, denied it. Here in this half-life he was granted it. 

“ _ Craig.”  _ she murmured.

It unhinged him, fingertips digging into her flesh, kissing her collarbone hard enough to bruise. Boone was never a talented lover, but in the moment he didn’t care - he just wanted to lose himself in the Courier. Her hands were roaming over him, unable to settle - so distinctly her, even now unable to find a fixed point, wanting to experience everything the world - and he - had to offer her.

He pulled up and slammed his mouth into hers at last, crossing the line they’d kept between them for so long. He kissed her roughly - too roughly - her body was shoved back against the wall, and she let out a muffled noise of pain into his mouth. Boone pulled away from her and froze. 

All at once, the dream evaporated, the haze keeping him from himself burned away. He had bad things coming to him. A debt to pay. People like him didn’t get to have moments like this.

She made no move, eyes fixed on him, suddenly wide and frightful. The two of them remained still, panting - a tide of horror starting to rise within him.

“Boone.” The Courier whispered, hesitantly extending a hand and cupping the side of his face. She was still shaking, but gave him a smile that broke his heart. “I’m okay. It’s okay.”

He closed his eyes and jerked away. He turned before he could see what ruin the action had wrought, and fled to the elevator.

She didn’t follow.


	8. Chapter 8

The sun woke him up.

Without his sunglasses, the light pouring in through the window and the various cracks in the structure was nearly blinding. Boone squinted, and felt a migraine to kill all migraines blooming in his skull. It was contrasted by the hardness in his jeans, the ghost of memory still hovering about him.

The guilt felt worse than the hangover. He could taste bile at the back of his tongue. That night wasn’t meant to give him any other feeling but shame. Lingering want filled him with disgust - even now, the worst part of him remained. He wasn’t any better than the men lurking at Gommorrah. She was dead, and still, he wanted.

He rolled onto his side, and a tide of nausea washed over him. The world spun, and every move he made only worsened the sensation. His head felt as if it’d split open, and all thought - all feeling - was drowned out by pain.

Boone didn’t know how long he laid there, unwilling to move lest he unleash another attack on his senses. Absently he wondered how long it had been since he’d been hungover. Since he’d first started his visits to the clinic, likely. 

A sudden clatter startled him. Someone was fussing with the door - he could hear the metallic clink of keys. He opened his mouth to tell whoever it was to fuck off, but his throat was dry. All he managed was a weak croak.

If whoever was on the other side of the door wanted him dead, they’d have an easy time of it. Boone was too weak to reach for his rifle, leaning up against the bed frame. How the Courier would laugh to see it. Craig Boone, felled by a hangover.

The door was finally unlocked, though it took a few moments more before it opened. The reason why was soon made clear - the ghoul bartender from the night previous now stood in his doorframe, a tray held in ruined hands. Boone could see the sunlight reflect off a glass full of water. His own mouth flooded with saliva in anticipation.

“She paid for your breakfast.” Explained the bartender - who Boone guessed must have been the hotel owner, as well. Cass didn’t leave him out to dry entirely, then. The tray was set on the ruined dresser, and the ghoul beheld him with a lopsided grin of amusement. “Said you’d be in a state, paid for another day and the food. I’ll come back tomorrow morning to make sure you’re out. If you plan on dying, do it close to then so you don’t stink up the place too much, yeah?”

It might as well have been a foreign language, for all Boone managed to grasp it. He nodded, regretting the way it set his head spinning again.

“Good.” 

The door shutting behind the owner sounded like a gunshot.

Time passed, marked only by the sunlight shifting positions on the floor. Boone watched it, tried to keep his breathing steady. He didn’t know how long it took him to gather the strength to stand and walk over to the tray, but he was sure it was long enough to shame him.

Water gave him the strength to eat the food on the tray - pre-War preserves, the chemical aftertaste enough to have his stomach threatening to undo what progress he had made. Boone fell back onto the bed, feeling a slow steadiness taking root in his body.

Maybe this was Cass’ revenge. Her way of making sure he’d known what he’d done wrong. 

He’d have preferred the bullet.

The day was wasted on sleep. Boone faded in and out of consciousness, getting up only to shamble over to the bathroom. A long time ago, he’d hate the lost time. Now? There was nothing to rush to. All he had was time. He could spend some of it remembering what he was.

It was the twilight before the dawn when Boone finally felt like something resembling a human being again. He cleaned himself up with the wash basin and ate his breakfast from his packed supplies. A familiar ritual. If he closed his eyes, he could feel her weight on the mattress next to him, imagine the sound of her brush moving through her hair. Waking up in another foreign place, making ready for another long day.

By the time he made it down the stairs, the sun was rising. As expected, the bar was dead silent when he entered, a sleepy looking girl with dark hair standing behind the counter. 

“Here.” He placed his room key on the countertop. It took the girl a few moments to take it, the circles under her eyes nearly as dark as her hair. “Looking for the Followers of the Apocalypse. Was told there’s a camp nearby.”

She blinked at him dully. “Wouldn’t call it nearby.” she drawled. “Route 66. Follow it north east. They were somewhere ‘round Peach Springs, last I heard.” A yawn. “Uh. A lot of desert between here and there. Probably going to take you a few days.”

It was Boone’s turn to blink at her. Was she trying to upsell him? In any case, it worked. He fished some caps from his pocket. “I’ll take a few bottles of water and pemmican, if you’ve got it.”

The girl perked up, instantly more alert. Definitely an upsell. “Just bighorn jerky.”

“Good enough.” He glanced down at his canteen hanging from his belt, nearly empty. It’d been his lifeblood while he recovered the day before. “You got a spring around here?”

“Pass is fifteen caps.”

Another handful of caps were handed over. His lightened wallet would make up for the increased water weight, at least. Boone watched while the girl scrawled something on a yellowed piece of paper.

“Good luck out there.” she said as she handed the slip of paper over.

“Thanks.”

\--

Route 66 was a lonely one. He had no company save for the sun beating down from above. He pulled his scarf over his head, turned it into a hood to try and keep its rays from his face. The heat was merciless, horizon shifting and shimmering as the earth baked beneath it. 

The landscape was rock and dried patches of foliage. Low mountains hung in the distance, though they grew closer with each passing hour. The sky above was blue and unending. Sometimes he’d spot a ruined ranch house at the side of the road, a collapsed barn out in the fields. Wooden fencing faded to grey, bleached bones peeking out from dead bushes.

Desolation was the only word he had for it - but it was a beautiful sort of desolation. Again, he was reminded of  _ her _ \- walking death just as he was, captivating in her strange way.

When the sun reached its peak, he had to take shelter in the next ruined building he came across. It was an old shed, home to rusting machinery of some long forgotten purpose. Boone leaned against it, relishing the shade, and sipped from his canteen.

It was tempting to fall asleep, to rest a few hours while the heat was too terrible to travel in. To wait out the sun. But he couldn’t help but feel a vague sense of unease - whether it was the lingering dregs of his hangover or something more was uncertain.

Maybe it was because things were too close to what he imagined the Courier had to brave. Her last weeks, alone in the desert. No company but the sun trying to burn her, outside in. Even a taste of it was suffering.

It was for that very reason that he’d forge onward. The least he could do. For her sake.

Sudden movement caught his eye - the first sign of life he’d seen since leaving Kingman. A spot of darkness moving into his vision across the sky. Boone heard it land on the roof, scrabbling claws and a mess of feathers. It hopped down to land just a few feet in front of him.

A crow. It held a dead lizard in its beak. It started to tear the thing apart with teeth and claw - Boone took it as a sign he’d better get moving. As he gathered his things and stood, the crow paused in its work. Watching him.

There were parts of the east that even the Legion dared not tread. He wondered if he’d crossed into one of them as he made his way down the cracked highway once more.

What had brought the Followers so far? Boone couldn’t comprehend a need for it - as far as he knew, their purpose was to help people - and the only thing in need he’d seen in this wilderness was the poor lizard. 

The sun lowered in the sky, and dusk brought with it blissful relief. Another thought struck him - what if the camp had moved on? How long would he wander in the desert? Would he fall, let his body be picked at by the crows?

No. He couldn’t see the future, there was no use trying to. He’d make his attempt, and if he failed he’d return to Nevada and try something else. Failure wasn’t a death sentence. Not anymore.

Darkness fell. He kept walking. There was no sense in doing anything else - visibility wasn’t much of an issue, his eyes had long ago adapted to dim light and the sliver of the moon hanging in the sky provided ample enough illumination, joined by the sea of stars overhead. It was something that went missed in Nevada, their light drowned out by the beacon that was New Vegas. There was no shelter - none that he could see just yet - and if whatever nocturnal wildlife decided he was prey, there was little he could do about it.

Boone wasn’t sure if it was terrifying or reassuring. Usanagi had said that fate was a way to gain comfort. To surrender control, to place blame elsewhere.

He held his rifle a little tighter. While fate might throw obstacles his way, it’d be on him whether or not he surmounted them.

Rusted traffic signs were his only mark of progress. He squinted at them, old reflective paint still catching the moonlight. Counted the miles ticking down to Peach Springs. 

Exhaustion bit at his heels. His feet hurt - even after years of marching and wandering, he never quite acclimated to a wanderer’s life. Sleep would claim him soon, whether he wanted it or not. At last, silhouettes loomed in the distance - two buildings, one small, one larger. As he approached, their purpose was clearer - one a small home, the other what he guessed to be a pre-War fuel stop. A car sat rusting in front of it.

Something roared in the distance. It’d have to do.

Rifle in hand, he approached the house. A skeleton lay by the porch, scraps of a faded dress clinging to its bones. The front door was oak - while the screen door in front of it threatened to fall apart when he pulled it open, the oak was sturdier. He thanked whatever entity was watching when he found it unlocked, twisting the handle and nudging it open with his rifle.

There wasn’t much to clear. A tiny kitchen painted in yellow, a bedroom with peeling pink wallpaper and a mattress rotting in a wrought iron frame. The front room - living room, he guessed - was carpeted in green and host to a couch with a pattern of autumn leaves that was the most intact piece of furniture in the building. Across from it was a television in a wooden frame, screen long since shattered.

It was home, for the night. Like the landscape surrounding it, the place was barren save for him - not even a radroach to be seen.

Boone propped a chair from the kitchen against the front door - he wasn’t much of a locksmith, that work was always left to the Courier. It wouldn’t do much against a deathclaw, but it’d buy him time. He set his pack down next to the couch and ate his dinner cold from the can.

It was quiet. He found himself missing the crackle of the radio, matching the crackle of a campfire. His surroundings were bright enough, at least - moonlight shone through the large front window, filtered through white curtains. He laid down on the couch and watched them sway, a broken pane of glass letting a breeze in. They flowed gently, to and fro. 

He fell asleep thinking of her hair.

\--

It was still dark when he awoke. Too dark. The silence was thick - disquieting, rather than peaceful. Boone sat up, his back sore from the couch springs, and peered through the window.

A cloud had moved over the moon - clouds, rather, given that the stars had been blacked out as well. Even in the deeper darkness, though, he could make out movement on the ground.

Crows. Dozens of them, feathers moving in a great writhing mass. As if they’d noticed his attention, they began to make noise, to move more erratically. Screeching at each other, fighting, some driven off only to be replaced by several more crows flying in. They were gathered around something on the ground.

His mind screamed at him to lie back down, to close his eyes - but the crows screamed even louder. Boone stood and walked to the door, nudging the chair out of the way. The old oak creaked as he pulled the door open.

The crows fell silent, beady eyes turned to him, glinting. As if they were expecting him. He stepped out onto the porch, wood groaning beneath his feet.

In a single great cloud, the crows took flight. The subject of their attention was soon made clear.

_ Her. _

The Courier sat cross legged on the ground, facing him. Her hands rested on her knees, palms facing the sky. Her head was tilted up to the stars. Her eyes were gone - pecked out, sockets clean.

Boone stood frozen as the crows descended upon him, unable to tear his gaze from her even as his flesh was stripped from his bones. They left his eyes, let him see what he had wrought.

\--

His eyes snapped open. He was greeted by the pale light of early morning, the crumbling living room lit softly, almost blurred around the edges. His throat felt ragged.

“ _ Fuck. _ ” Boone swore, slamming his fist into the couch and causing a cloud of dust to puff forth. He ran his hand over his face - clammy and damp.

Stupid of him to think the nightmares would stop. They always found new ways to surprise him, to blur the lines between dream and reality. Maybe he deserved it.

For several minutes he stayed on the couch, slowing his breathing. Inhale - two, three, exhale - two, three. The shaking in his limbs calmed, his heartbeat resuming its normal rhythm. 

Even if he deserved it, he couldn’t let them stop him. Not here. Not yet.

\--

Boone skipped his usual morning ritual and made for the road as soon as he’d gathered his bearings. He didn’t want to be reminded of what he’d seen in the night any longer than he had to.

Somehow, it was hotter than it was the day before. Internally he cursed himself for sleeping in so late - it was best to get moving before the dawn, when the sun had just begun to touch the landscape. Steal a few hours of cooler temperatures before the reality of life in the Mojave settled in. Now he’d pay for his foolishness with lost time.

Every footstep rang with resentment, a lifetime of bad choices running through his mind. Instead of numbing him, they ignited his fury - pushed him forward. The miles continued to tick down on the roadside signs, as he drew ever closer to his destination. As the sun drew to its full height he still marched, even as the heat bore down upon him and a headache settled in his skull.

Only a few miles left. He didn’t want to spend another night with nothing but silence for company. Sweat dripped down into his eyes, made them sting, but he kept putting one foot in front of the other. 

The headache grew, and his canteen provided little relief. It was hard not to guzzle the water down, lukewarm as it was - he had to ration it. Dehydration killed as fast as a deathclaw.

At last, he saw it. A white banner and a red cross, draped over the sole remaining wall of an old house. An arrow spray painted below it pointed north to a church on a small hill. Boone eyed the incline with trepidation, deciding to take advantage of the shade offered by the wall. He approached it, the canvas banner hanging limply in the still air. He leaned his back against it and slid to the ground. Just a moment’s rest, and he’d scale the hill, and then…

Unconsciousness took him. He drifted in the dark, fevered half-formed scenes floating in and out of his mind.

When awareness next returned, he heard the dull hum of a generator, the buzz of a fan. Slowly he opened his eyes, greeted by the sight of a high ceiling and old wooden beams. He squinted - his shades were gone, eyes exposed to the raw sunlight.

“When they said an NCR soldier collapsed outside, I thought the worst.” A familiar voice spoke from somewhere nearby. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

Boone turned his head. He was in an old church - the one he’d seen, he hoped - lying on a cot in a row of others. In a chair at his side sat a man with golden hair - though now it was starting to be threaded with silver.

Arcade.

“Heatstroke.” Arcade continued. “Checked your supplies. You had enough to make camp, so I don’t know why you were still out. Hottest day of the year so far, by our readings.” He didn’t seem able to decide if he was disappointed or curious, tone wavering between scolding and inquiring.

“Wasn’t the entrance I wanted to make.” Boone rasped. 

As if on cue, Arcade nudged a canteen into his hands. “If your timing was any worse, you wouldn’t have made an entrance at all. This isn’t a medical outpost.” His attempts to avoid frowning failed. “You took someone’s cot.”

Boone knew enough of the man to know when he had something he was trying not to say. He didn’t want their meeting to start this way - all he’d proven was that he was still the same brash idiot he’d always been. He took a long drink from the canteen, getting his bearings enough to sit upright.

The church was filled with equipment he didn’t know the purpose of. Potted plants, beakers, terminals and papers. A few people in white coats were fussing with the gathered items, occasionally murmuring to each other. At times they’d glance over to the two men, but none approached.

Arcade broke the silence. “You were looking for us?” His tone was wary, eyes cautious behind his spectacles.

“Looking for you.” Boone clarified. Arcade’s eyes narrowed. “You and Veronica.”

“For what purpose?”

“To apologize.”

Arcade scoffed, folding his arms across his chest - but he couldn’t hide his surprise. “You’re about three years late for that.”

“Yeah.” Boone agreed quietly. “Too late, maybe. Words don’t mean much. I know that.” He swallowed, finding his voice again. “I want to help.”

“No. You don’t get to-” Arcade cut himself off, nostrils flaring. Gathering himself, calculating what he wanted to say. “I asked you for help, once. I came to you, after the NCR had given you your medals and your caps. You were a war hero, people might have listened to you, your words might have meant something.” His voice cracked a little, overwrought with emotion. He ran a hand through his golden hair, letting out a heavy sigh. “Maybe you were right, maybe they wouldn’t have listened - but you didn’t even try.” 

“I was a coward.” It was becoming easy, admitting it. Boone didn’t feel like the man of years past anymore, was better able to list his sins. “I wanted to hide. Wanted to sleep. Wanted to die. You were right. Death wish didn’t give me a right to let the rest of the world waste away with me. I fucked up. ”

“I know what happened at Bitter Springs.” Arcade cut across sharply. “I knew back then, too, but I’d thought you regretted it. I hoped that, perhaps, the Courier would see what you did as the exact reason why the NCR couldn’t be trusted. I hoped that you knew what they were capable of. But you went back. She gave the NCR the Dam, and they decided that any force of good that wasn’t them made for bad optics.” His stare was enough to wound. “She had the excuse of a bullet to the head, at least, but you didn’t. I don’t believe you. I’m sorry, but I don’t. So if you’re here to try and negotiate on the behalf of the NCR-”

“Cass said the same thing.” Boone interrupted. “Fuck the NCR. I let my contract expire. Not part of them anymore.”

Arcade leaned back in his chair, though his arms remained crossed. He looked at Boone appraisingly, trying to figure out what question to ask first. “Why were you talking with Cass?”

“Tracked her down. She’s the one who pointed me your way.” Boone lowered his eyes to the floor - startlingly clean, given the wear on the floorboards. “Sought her out for the same reason I’m here.” He gathered his nerves and looked Arcade in the eye. “I’ve hurt a lot of people. Doesn’t matter if I meant to or not. Was too caught up in my own shit to see what everyone else was going through. Too blind to see what I was doing.”

It wasn’t convincing. “Did the Courier put you up to this?”

The question felt like a knife to the gut. Boone found himself unable to answer, the truth caught in his throat. Arcade didn’t know. Neither did Veronica. He hadn’t anticipated that he’d be the one bearing the truth, he’d thought word would travel - but the two had departed the Mojave before the Courier had.

His distress must have been visible, for there was a glimmer of dread on Arcade’s features as he leaned forward. “Boone, breathe.” he stated calmly, gesturing at the canteen. “What happened?”

Boone took another drink from the canteen, the water washing away the lump of horror. He tried to slow his breathing again, counting between breaths. “It was only a couple months after you left. Courier came back. Told me she was leaving the Mojave, asked me to come with her.” Maybe Arcade would do the same as Cass, when he told her. Part of Boone wanted him to. “Told her I couldn’t leave. She left. Ended up trying to follow her not too long after, but-” Another drink from the canteen. He wished it was something stronger. Arcade was silent, making it all the worse. “- local tribals were the last to see her. Said she walked into a desert no one ever came back from. I hoped, but - it’s been years.”

Arcade exhaled, letting his hands drop to his sides. Whatever anger he wore had turned into pity. “So that’s what it took.”

“Took the Courier dying for me to do fucking anything with my life, yeah.” Boone murmured. “NCR told me to get help - I was getting sloppy. Scaring the troops. Finally realized they just cared about me for morale’s sake. They never gave a shit about her.”

“You’re right.” he agreed grimly. The two men fell into silence once more - Boone lost in painful memories, Arcade lost in thought. It was the latter who spoke again. “So you’ve apologised. I’ll be honest - I don’t know if I can forgive you.” he spoke plainly. “Better late than never, true, but… I can’t forget what happened to Freeside. 

Boone nodded. The other man didn’t seem to know quite what to make of him, anticipating arguments that never came.

“You can stay here as long as you need to. We’re not a medical outpost, but that doesn’t mean we’ll turn away someone in need.” His frown returned. “No matter who they are. What do you plan on doing now?”

“Finding Veronica. Telling her the same thing.”

Arcade studied him for a few moments before finally sighing. “Look - you want to help? She’s got a workshop in one of the houses down the road. She’s - well, she’ll tell you herself what she has planned. If you can talk her out of it, you’ll be doing me a favor.”

“What if I can’t?”

The chair scraped against the floorboards as Arcade stood. “Help her. The cot you’re sitting in is hers, so you owe her that, at least.” He gestured at the foot of the bed. “Your things are all here. Try not to get heat stroke again.”

Boone turned in the bed, placing his feet onto the floor again. He could feel the splintering wood through his socks. “I just need a few minutes.”

“And I need a drink.” Arcade murmured, heading for the door.

“Arcade?” Boone called after him.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Arcade gave him a last, sad look.

“Take care of yourself, Boone.”


	9. Chapter 9

Veronica’s workshop was hard to miss. Boone wondered how long the Followers had set up in Peach Springs, for the small and relatively intact pre-War house Arcade had described was settled amidst a veritable hoard of scrap and machinery. It was ordered and clean, and for the first time since the glory days he was baffled by how she managed to make sense of it all.

The sun hung low in the sky - he didn’t know how long he’d been out for, but it was several hours at least. Arcade said she’d given up her cot - Boone hoped it hadn’t made her testy. Veronica was always slow to genuinely anger - but once it had settled in her bones, it was just as slow to leave her.

A generator’s low hum drowned out his footsteps as he approached the house’s front door. Boone made a mental note to tell her it was a bad idea to have it so close when more sinister visitors than he could take advantage of the noise - but then, the camp was apparently the only human life for miles and miles.

His hand hovered over the doorknob. He considered knocking, but it’d go unheard under the constant drone. 

He was stalling.

With a deep breath, he twisted the knob and found the door unlocked. It swung open without even a creak, spilling light into the darkened interior. 

The house was gutted on the inside, walls torn out to hollow the building. It’d explain the pile of wood outside. It made room for numerous tables and shelves, covered in bits of metal and books and circuitry, parts and pieces he couldn’t name or find purpose for. The reason for the generator was clear, as the place was filled with fans - a few attached to strange devices, blowing cool air. At the center of it all, surrounded by her collection as if it was a shrine, sat Veronica Santangelo.

She was absorbed in her work - hadn’t noticed the changing light as he entered, as a desk lamp on the table illuminated her project. A Pip-Boy, hooked up to a terminal beside her displaying an endless scroll of information. Her back was turned to him, attention engrossed by the scrolling text - on occasion she’d hit a few keys, and it’d pause for a moment.

A little voice in his head told him to leave, to let her be happy until Arcade inevitably filled her in, to turn away and stop darkening her doorstep. Whatever Veronica was working on was beyond his ability to understand - he was still a brash idiot, still unable to do anything more than shoot. He couldn’t create, he could only ever destroy.

The voice was silenced as he shut the door behind him and cleared his throat, loud enough to sound over the generator outside.

Veronica sighed and glanced over her shoulder. “Look, I told you-” she began, before her mind had a chance to process what she was seeing. The moment the connection was made, however, she fell silent. Then, a smile - and she was up and out of her chair and crossing the room, wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug.

Boone’s throat felt tight again, and his eyes stung. It’d been too long since he’d had contact like this, touch starvation rearing its head - but he couldn’t take solace in it, not when he knew he’d likely only bring misery.

“I knew you’d come.” Veronica exclaimed, pulling away from him. She beamed as she looked up at him, hardly bothered by his grave expression. “Courier was right about you.”

He couldn’t breathe. The buzzing of the fans and generator threatened to consume him. Boone heard her speak again, but it sounded far away - he felt her hands steadying his arms, guiding him to a free spot on a couch piled with books.

A canteen - his canteen - was placed back in his hands by Veronica, and she stood nervously over him as he took another few gulps. The world came back into focus, steadied.

“Not like Arcade to let you go when you’re not recovered.” she muttered. Her arms were crossed in front of her. “Jesus, Boone.”

He looked up at her, feeling more tired than he ever had in his life. Veronica’s attitude had him right back in the old days, listening to her chatter happily while the campfire crackled and the Courier hummed in response. It was a slap in the face of what was lost - Cass and Arcade looked at him differently, but Veronica was treating him just as she ever had.

Boone wanted to work up to it, to explain that his distress was caused by far worse than heat stroke. He wanted to ease her into the truth - but he was never a diplomat, never could phrase things delicately, never really knew what would make people smile or soften a blow. That was Carla’s realm - and the tightness in his throat returned with a vengeance.

“Courier’s dead.”

Veronica’s expression fell instantly. How many friends had she lost? The mess with the Brotherhood had left her crying for a week when she thought no one was looking. The Courier was yet another tally on the list of people she’d cared about that were never going to walk the earth again.

Yet another bloodstain on his hands.

Veronica said nothing, simply sitting down heavily on the couch next to him. There was nothing more than the drone of the fans and the generator’s hum, and Boone figured the sound was having the same effect on her as it was on him.

Gently he nudged her arm with his canteen. She took it - eyes shining with tears - and looked like she wished it was something stronger, just as he did.

They sat in silence, their heads bowed under the weight of it. Veronica didn’t ask any questions - out of character enough that it felt like a twist of the knife. Occasionally she sniffed and wiped at her eyes, taking another drink from the canteen.

“Is that why you’re here?” A question at last. “You… you giving everyone the news?”

“No.” he admitted, and curiosity battled with pain in her eyes. “Gave Arcade the whole story, but thought both of you knew.”

She nodded wordlessly and sank a little further into the couch. “How long?”

“Couple years.”

“Oh.”

They didn’t speak until she stopped sniffling, when she wiped at her eyes for the final time and stood up. “You want a sarsaparilla?” she offered, nudging her thumb in the direction of a battered fridge pressed up against the wall. “Sweets always make me feel better.”

Boone shook his head, waited until she retrieved a bottle from the fridge and settled down on the couch next to him again. 

“You aren’t going to ask?” he murmured. The lack of hate on her features was worse than if she'd slapped him across the face, he found. This - it wasn’t predictable.

The cap popped off the bottle with a hiss and fell to the floor. She took a sip. “You said you gave Arcade the full story. I’ll ask him. Better you don’t have to relive it.”

“What if it was my fault?”

That got her to look directly at him, a frown gracing her soft features. “It’s not.” she said simply, as if it was concrete fact.

“I left her. I didn’t follow her. She was alone-”

“Did you pull the trigger?” Veronica cut in swiftly. “Did you make the decision for her?”

Boone was caught off guard. He grappled with a response. “No, but I wasn’t there-”

She laughed at that - humorless and a little hoarse. “Boone, a bullet to the head didn’t kill her. Whatever… whatever did her in, it wasn’t anything any of us could stop, I’m sure.” Veronica stared down at the sarsaparilla bottle, rubbed her thumb against the faded label.

He couldn’t look at her - instead he stared at the bottle cap on the ground. A faint blue star glowed from its underside. Something inside him tightened at the memory of the Courier keeping a careful eye out for them, once upon a time.

He didn’t know if it was a good omen or a bad one.

“She wouldn’t have left in the first place if I was better.” Boone responded at last, shifting his weight to lean back into the couch, letting his body relax.

Veronica’s smile was a sad one, understanding in her eyes. “I know better than most people that you can’t get caught up in the what-ifs. Maybe she would have stayed a little longer, but - Arcade and I weren’t the only ones who didn’t feel at home in Nevada anymore, you know.”

Boone snorted, unable to process the idea that Veronica bore him no ill will. “Cass nearly broke my jaw when I told her.”

“Cass has anger issues.” Veronica shrugged. “Look, Boone - I spent a long time being angry. I’m tired of it. It doesn’t help if you’re trying to do anything other than kill people. I know what it’s like to feel guilty -” Her eyes darted to the pip-boy on her work table. “- but people make their own choices. Courier was her own woman. If you want my forgiveness-”

“I don’t. I came here to apologize. To try and do some good, if you need the help.”

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “- you have it. Never needed it. Just being here is all the proof I need that you’re not the same man you were.” Veronica concluded, punctuating the end of the sentence with another sip of sarsparilla. “So. You didn’t come to join the Followers? Awful long way to walk for an apology.”

Boone rubbed at his wrists. “Don’t think I should be allowed to join anything again. I don’t know. Left the NCR, but part of me thinks that they’ll never change without people on the inside trying.”

“That’s a familiar sentiment.”

He blinked at her. It was. If there was anyone who understood his wavering thoughts, his loss of purpose - it was Veronica. “I guess I know your answer, then.”

“One person can do a lot.” She nudged her chin in the direction of the starred bottle cap, implication hanging in the air. “But changing minds? Minds of powerful people? I don’t know. Don’t think there’s enough time in one life for that.”

“Mm.” It was his turn to shrug. “Well. I asked Arcade if there was anything I could do to help.”

“You’re lucky you were out for a bit. Gave his temper time to cool off, but I’m sure he gave you an earful either way. He’s not _wrong_ , but... “ she trailed off, tapping her fingers against the bottle. “Did he give you an answer? There’s a few things we could use a good gun for around here.”

“Yeah? He only told me one.”

“We’re a research outpost. There’s a big tribe to the northeast that managed to avoid the Legion somehow, and it’s got us curious. Not to mention the insight we could have with this part of the country - some have been nice enough to show us what can be done with the local plant life, but it’s slow going. Out here we’re pretty exposed - not too many raiders out here, but the ones that make it are tougher than normal. And there’s a few gangs made up from the Legion leftovers. They’re not much fun either.” Veronica explained. “You used to be a watchman, right? We could use one of those. I got a turret or two set up, but they’re not really smart.”

“I’m not really smart either.”

Veronica laughed genuinely at that. “We’ve got enough eggheads here. Arcade and I are the best in combat out of the bunch, which should give you a good idea of the state of things.”

“I remember you holding your own pretty well.”

“I’ve got a little mission of my own coming up, so they’ll be left with just Arcade to watch over them.” Veronica looked over at him and found no surprise on his features. Her smile fell. “... he told you, didn’t he.”

“Said you were planning something and that I should try and talk you out of it.”

“Boy, he’s getting desperate.”

Boone cracked a half-smile at that. “Must be. He said if I couldn’t convince you, I should help you.”

Veronica’s expression visibly darkened, a crease forming in her brow. “That wasn’t kind of him. Guess he’s still pretty angry at you.”

“How’s that?”

She heaved a sigh and finished off her bottle of sarsaparilla, walking it over to a box full of similarly empty bottles. Veronica returned to her seat by the terminal, waving him over to her desk. “Because there’s a really good chance I might not be coming back from this. Did he sound like he was trying to get you killed?”

“No.” He could answer that honestly, at least. “Even I know Arcade’s not like that. Think he’s worried about you, mostly.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Yeah. That makes this harder. I’d prefer if he was being an asshole about it, then I wouldn’t feel so bad.”

Boone swallowed, leaning his hip against her work table and looking over the pip-boy. It was worn, but well polished. Old and well loved. “I’m supposed to be the one with a death wish.” He muttered. “Must be something important to have you willing to leave them behind.”

“Someone important.” Veronica corrected him. She followed his sight line, and gave the pip-boy an affectionate pat. “Courier came to me when she was back from that sabbatical she took after the Dam. She tell you what happened?”

“Didn’t tell me herself. Picked up on rumors. She went to the Divide.”

“Wasn’t her only stop.” Veronica laced her fingers in front of her, resting her hands against her stomach. “First she was captured.”

Something uncoiled itself in his stomach. Boone felt a sting at the idea of the Courier keeping things from him, but it was overwhelmed by the idea of new knowledge about her - a new story. It was almost as if she was alive, this way. Then the horror sank in - _captured._ The strange chemical scent of Gomorrah reignited in his memory. If she’d - again - and he’d turned her away-

Boone took a deep breath, chasing ghosts away. That was something to haunt him another time. “By who?”

“Father Elijah. He used to be in charge of the Brotherhood out here - he’s the one who gave the NCR hell at HELIOS One. The man was a genius.” She sighed again, furrowed brow wavering as her emotions battled one another. “But there’s a saying about genius - that it’s usually on the other side of madness. People don’t get that smart without picking up a few quirks, and he had… a lot.” She cleared her throat. “Elijah was my mentor. He didn’t get along with the other elders, and after HELIOS he deserted."

"So you're after Elijah?"

"Elijah's dead." Veronica said flatly. "I'm after Christine." She side-eyed him, as if anticipating another interruption - and seemed pleased when he remained silent. "We were close, until we weren't. I became a scribe, while she… to make things simple, she joined the part of the Brotherhood that policed the rest. Once Elijah deserted the hunt was on, but no one knew where he went. Or at least, I thought no one knew. Until the Courier came. Have you ever heard about the Sierra Madre?"

"It's a fairytale." Boone meant to say it dismissively, but if there was anyone who'd make a fairytale real it was the Courier. He couldn't help but lean forward as if he was pulled, drawn to any mention of her. 

"Elijah found it. He wanted inside, but he needed people to do it, and… that's why he captured the Courier. She didn't say much about it - just that he was dead - but she handed me a holotape. He mentioned someone from the Brotherhood finding him - and he didn't kill them."

"You think it might be Christine."

Veronica's smile was a shy, uncertain thing - and Boone suddenly realized the depths of feeling she must have had for the other woman. "... I hope it is. If there's anyone tenacious enough to track him down, it's her."

"No one's seen the Sierra Madre and come back to tell anyone about it. If it exists, and your elder found it - that means it's deadly." Boone began slowly. Veronica knew herself, said she might not come back. "You're willing to risk your life on it? What if it isn't her? Wouldn't the Courier have told you?"

"The Courier wouldn't have known who she was if they met." Veronica sounded more like she was trying to convince herself, clearly having already considered the question. The odds weren't great. "But even if I'm wrong - I'll track down what happened to part of the Circle of Steel. I'll have the Brotherhood owe me a favor, maybe. I'll have the chance to talk to her to report my findings." A wince. She must have truly been desperate. "Anyways, I have an advantage everyone else didn't." She patted the pip-boy again. 

"A pip-boy? Is that why Elijah needed the Courier?"

"No. I mean - I don't know, but I don't think so. Pip-boys are something he could track down. After House emptied out the Vault on the Strip, people smuggled them out; sold them, lost them, had them stolen. Not to mention the even older ones out there - they're pricey and rare, but if you know where to look…" Veronica hummed. "I got this one off a scrap trader from the Hub thanks to the caps the NCR handed out to us. Anyways, it doesn't matter that it's a pip-boy - what matters is what's on it. The Courier told me where she'd been lured to before she was captured - Elijah's bunker. With his terminal. It took a lot of work, but I cracked it. All of his research, his thought process, his findings - all documented. He made it in and out of the Sierra Madre, and I know how he did it."

Boone knew why Arcade was concerned. Veronica was being reckless beyond belief, willing to sacrifice her life on a hunch.

He couldn’t blame her for it. He’d throw his life away in a heartbeat for a chance to see the Courier again. 

“How can I help?”

Veronica blinked at him. “Did you - were you listening to what you were saying? It’s deadly, and I’m running on maybes. I know Arcade told you to help out, but-”

“There’s nothing else for me to do.” Boone interrupted, his voice firm and steady. “I’ve got a lot of sins. I can’t get rid of them, and dying without trying to add some good to the world is only going to make things worse. So. I want to do good.”

She frowned. “Arcade has a much different sense of good, you know. I mean, I’ll admit it too - this is selfish of me. If it doesn’t work out. If it does…”

“The least I can do is make sure you get out alive, no matter what happens." He'd failed to do so for the Courier. Maybe Veronica was his second chance to make the right decision.

“You’ve still got that death wish, huh?”

He thought on it for a moment - on his true motivations for aiding in an expedition that only the Courier ever returned alive from. At his heart, he didn’t want to die - he wanted things to succeed, wanted to help Veronica reconnect with someone she’d lost. It was all he could do after being at least partly to blame for her losing someone - even if she didn’t place fault with him.

Boone had to admit that walking the same road the Courier had more influence than he wanted to say.

“No. I’ll tell you the same thing I told Cass. I robbed you of a friend. Can’t undo what I’ve done, but I can try to make things better.” 

Veronica wheeled her chair back to face her terminal, smile returned. “Well, you might not be officially one of the Followers - but you’ve got the spirit. Alright. Guess I should give you a run down of the plan, then. Let me tell you about the Cloud…”


	10. Chapter 10

The more Veronica spoke of the Sierra Madre, the more the utter insanity of the whole proposition settled itself in Boone’s mind.

Power armor, impervious to even the worst radiation, couldn’t save them. Technology and weaponry would fail them. A toxic cloud - _the_ Cloud - would eat through their belongings with every moment they strayed into its domain, would drain their strength with every breath taken. Between it and the radiation lingering in the area, their destination was treacherous.

Those were just the ambient dangers, innate to the environment. Mention was made of _ghost people_ \- shambling figures sealed in their old pre-war gear for whom bullets were a mild inconvenience. Let alone whatever wildlife still remained in the area. What worried Boone even more than the dangers outlined in Elijah’s records and explained by Veronica were the things that went unrecorded. The unknown dangers. It’d been years since Elijah’s presence ( _since the Courier_ , he couldn’t help but think) and Boone knew well just how much the world could change.

Still, he didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t leave Veronica to brave the Sierra Madre alone, even if Boone knew she was more than capable of taking care of herself. He knew what it was to search for someone - knew intimately the desperation and driving force behind such action, no matter how thin hope ran. Boone had brought his own misery upon himself, though. Veronica didn’t ask for any of it. She’d been given hope, and she deserved the chance to follow up on it.

The thoughts ran through his mind while he lay on his bedroll, spread out on the floor of Veronica’s workshop. She slept on the couch, the book she’d been reading still limply grasped in her fingers. 

Beside him were their packs. Lightly stocked, with only the basics - he was to leave his armor and rifle behind, the risk to them too great. They’d go in with the bare essentials and hope they could salvage what they could once inside the mysterious fortress. A gun was a gun, and Boone tried not to be bothered at setting aside the rifle that had accompanied him since basic. 

Without extra weight, they could make their way through the Cloud following the shifting patterns Elijah had taken note of. Veronica’s expression had hardened when Boone asked her how the former elder knew. The Courier wasn’t the first Elijah captured, and the map to the Sierra Madre was written in blood.

It made his gut twist, his mind consumed with the thought of what suffering the Courier could have endured. Suffering at the hands of another. She’d returned to him after it all, and he’d been none the wiser. He let her go.

As he laid in the heat of the workshop and listened to the dull thrum of the generator outside, Boone knew he’d spend the eve of their departure sleepless.

He awoke to Veronica's boot nudging his shoulder.

"Boone! Jesus. I thought you'd gone and died on me." 

"Had a hard time sleeping last night." he murmured in apology. "What time is it?"

"Three." Light still shone into the workshop. Afternoon, then.

_Shit._

Boone sat straight up, scrambling to grab his boots. He paused midway through the action, noting that Veronica was giggling. "What?"

"There's no rush. I let you sleep in, since I had to talk to Arcade about a few things." From the way her mouth turned down as she spoke, he had a good guess as to what the talk entailed. 

"Anyways, I figured we should take it easy this first day. Things will start cooling off in a couple of hours, and I know you work best when you're on a nocturnal schedule."

He frowned. "I might, but so does the wildlife."

"We walk until it's too dark, make camp for a few hours, catch as much of the morning as we can and sleep properly when the heat's at its worst." When Boone opened his mouth to argue otherwise, he found himself cut off as Veronica continued. "Look, I'm not taking survival lessons from the guy who rolled in here with heatstroke."

"Fine." Boone started to tug his boots on, tone turning into more of a grunt as he leaned over to lace them up. "We get eaten by a bunch of nightstalkers, it's on you."

"You sound like the Courier." Veronica realized her mistake as soon as she spoke, a full wince blossoming over her features. "I'm sorry."

He stared at his boots for a moment, then heaved a great sigh. "S'alright. At least some part of her's still here."

Veronica's wince morphed into a cautious smile, and for the first time Boone believed himself.

\--

They departed with little fanfare, Veronica muttering apologies on Arcade’s behalf. It felt good to be on the road again - better in the late part of the day, when the sunlight started to tinge golden and the heat was less intent on searing his flesh from his bones. Travelling with the bare essentials was freeing - a figurative and literal weight off of his shoulders. He tried not to think about what lay ahead of them too hard, his attention split between staring at the disintegrating pavement beneath their feet and catching up with Veronica.

At first Veronica spoke about her life with the Followers - how quickly they’d realized her knowledge and gave her the freedom she’d battled the Brotherhood for years for. Associates that Boone didn’t care to remember the names of - and how they reminded her of the people back home. Even now she had a foot planted in the past, the roots difficult to untangle. He could relate.

It felt like old times, travelling with Veronica. Reminded him of the two weeks between first reaching the I-88 trading post and entering the Strip. Weeks spent in Freeside and Vegas’ outskirts, conversation constant ambient noise. He’d offer a grunt or short inquiry in reply, Veronica would talk at a measured but constant pace. All that was missing was the Courier, with her own questions and stories interweaving with Veronica’s as if the two were made to converse with each other. Without her, the occasional pause in conversation dragged.

It was after one of these pauses, when the sun had nearly disappeared beneath the horizon and the sky was a mix of navy blue and purple, that Veronica asked a question he wasn’t expecting. “Why are you so certain she’s dead?”

The deja vu that hit almost sent him reeling, awareness torn across time. _She’d lit a cigarette as he asked her to do what no one else could, asked him how he knew Carla was dead with smoke drifting out of her lips, looking a spirit of death herself._ The answer he gave was the same. “I just know.”

Veronica squinted at him in the low light, then fiddled with the pip-boy on her wrist. A soft click, and their surroundings were lit in dim green. He didn’t know if he liked it much. “Did you… skip some things, when you told Arcade what happened?”

“No.”

“Then you can’t know, can you?” Her voice was ardent, as if she’d just made a wonderful discovery. Veronica wielded her optimism haphazardly, and he wanted to shake her until she stopped.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t hide his reasoning out of fear. He’d nothing left to lose - vulnerability wasn’t such a terrible thing anymore.

“She’d have come back.” Boone spoke in tones nearly as quiet as the shifting grains of sand, as if it’d lessen the weight of his words. “If she was still alive.”

Veronica’s voice lowered to match his. “Boone, it’s only been-”

“Almost three years.”

“Boone.” Veronica’s insistence was worse than anything else, worse than Cass’ anger or Arcade’s disappointment. Her denial, her belief that there was yet hope - it was dangerous. It was something he wanted to believe in, too.

But there was nothing to be done. Proof wasn’t something most of the wasteland got, he’d be no exception when it came to closure. To let a flame of hope burn again only to have it snuffed out years down the line would break him.

“I let her go knowing she’d be back.” he finally admitted. “Stupid. Was so sure of it. She was tied to the Mojave more than I ever was.”

“You didn’t think she’d leave.”

“No.” It was a battle to keep his breathing even, to admit the thoughts that nagged at him the moment Veronica spoke of the Courier’s possible survival. “If… if she’s alive, she’s still gone. Wants to stay gone.”

“What if-”

“Veronica.” It was his turn to interrupt.

She looked down at her feet, kicked a pebble down the road. The sun disappeared below the horizon, and the world was tinged in blue. “Arcade argued with me too, you know.”

Boone couldn’t help but scoff. “He’s always been the smart one. Believe him, if you don’t believe me.”

“I just… I can’t get over the maybes, you know? We’re here because of a maybe. _You’re_ here. Maybe she tried to come back, but couldn’t-”

“Stop.” 

Mercifully, Veronica held her tongue. “Okay. So…” She always wrung her hands when changing the subject, unable to avoid displaying her discomfort. “... camp out in the next building we find, then?”

Camp was a wonderful prospect. “Yeah.”

\--

The moon was creeping up into the sky by the time they found a half-collapsed ranch house. Part of the second floor had fallen in, providing another layer of protection from the elements. Boone started a fire in the intact woodstove and started to heat up some of their meager rations while Veronica worked ‘securing’ the area with a few mines.

“Did the NCR teach you how to cook?” Veronica asked later, before spooning a mixture of fried cram and local vegetation into her mouth. “I always wondered.” she added, words slightly muffled with her mouth full. 

“No.” Boone answered truthfully, this line of questioning more welcome than the last. “When I settled down I had to cook more. Found that I liked it.” 

The hunger built up from the evening’s hike took hold of them in force, and the next few minutes were spent in silence as they ate. 

When Veronica next spoke, her voice carried with it the sleepy satisfaction of a full belly and a warm campsite. “You know, we’re going to see some pretty amazing sights on this road trip of ours.”

Boone had to admit he felt a little exhausted himself, but at that point he figured it was just baked into his bones. “Didn’t know this was a sightseeing tour.”

“Silver linings, Boone.” Veronica rolled her eyes and stretched out on her bedroll. She used her pack as a pillow. “Anyways, I figure even _you’ve_ heard of the Grand Canyon.”

“Legion was pretty obsessed with it.”

“Not just the Legion. The Followers have piles of research on just how many tribes live there. Well.” Veronica frowned. “Lived there. I don’t know how many avoided getting folded into the Legion. Anyways - it was a pretty big deal even before the war. I’ve seen postcards. We’ll pass through some of it on our way to the Sierra Madre.”

“Wouldn’t get my hopes up, if I were you.” Boone murmured, leaning up against the wall and holding his rifle in his lap, intent on taking first watch. “Legion burns everything it touches.”

“You had your eyes open when you walked here, didn’t you? You know that’s not true. People recover, just like the land does. Even if it takes a few years.” Veronica smiled so brightly it was hard not to believe her.

Boone simply grunted in reply. Not too long after, he heard her gently snoring.

As the fire in the woodstove dwindled down to embers and the darkness became absolute, he got the strangest impression of being watched.

\--

Morning proved they were alone, whatever misgivings he had. The new dawn felt strangely refreshing, the pink tinge to the world soft and comforting.

The following days passed in a predictable pattern. They woke just as light began to bleed back into the sky, hiked while the world was bathed in color and rested in whatever shade they could find when the sun drew to its full height, returning to the road when it started to touch the horizon. They walked in a painted world, the watercolor sky granting life even to the barren landscape surrounding them.

The sense of being watched returned at night, but after multiple uneventful mornings Boone had chalked it up to his own paranoia. It grew harder to dwell on, besides - their nights were spent happily reminiscing. On the fourth night Veronica recalled the robot the Courier fetched for one of the Garrets. _What was its name? Fisto?_ He didn’t mind how loudly Veronica howled with laughter beside him, because he was right there with her having the first laughing fit he’d had in years.

On the fifth day, the landscape around them started to change. The road they followed began to dip downward, outcroppings of rock appearing at its sides. In their shade life bloomed - bushes and succulents. As midday approached the road turned into a trail, snaking downward into a shallow canyon. Veronica rushed them down into it, intent on sitting beneath proper shade while they waited out the sun.

“Doesn’t look very grand to me.” Boone muttered, taking a sip from his canteen. 

Veronica scowled at him from under her hood, wiping the sweat out of her eyes. “This isn’t the Grand Canyon - well, not really. We’re crossing the shallow part of it, then heading east. This way we get to avoid whatever tribes are still kicking around and save ourselves a _lot_ of climbing.”

He grunted, as he so often did when he’d meant to be sarcastic but couldn’t quite figure out the phrasing. 

“Trust me, we’ll pass by the _real_ part of it, and you’ll be eating your words. Tch. Leave it to you to grumble about travelling through the most beautiful part of the desert. People used to pay money to come here, you know.”

Wind blew through the canyon, and Boone heard Veronica’s geiger counter click a few times. He raised a brow.

“... there also might have been a uranium mining operation that went really out of control, but we’re not going to be anywhere near that. Uh.” She shuffled in her pack and took out a bottle of pills. “Probably a good idea to pop some rad-x, just to be safe.”

“Mhm.” Boone held out his palm and she shook a couple tablets into his hand.

“Boone, you’re the only person I know who can grunt _smugly_.” Veronica huffed.

He smirked at her.

They began to move again once the canyon was cast entirely into shade, red-orange rock walls towering at either side of them. At parts it grew so narrow he couldn’t see the sky above them, light dripping down in thin shafts on white sand beneath their feet. He barely had to extend his arm to touch the canyon walls, strangely smooth. Veronica would sigh on occasion and speak aloud how beautiful it was - Boone, however, didn’t have the words.

He was sad to leave it when the canyon widened and a path up and out of it became clear. The sight that awaited when they crested the top of the path to flat ground startled him.

Trees.

They were short and warped, more overgrown shrubbery than anything, but they were trees. Hundreds - thousands of them, as far as he could see. They had needles rather than leaves, tinged green and orange. He’d never seen anything like it.

“Arcade’s missing out.” Veronica breathed, similarly taken back by the sight. “Okay. Watch your feet, big boots. This isn’t a place you want to twist your ankle in.”

Unease crept in, for Boone soon realized that with the intense tree cover his sight lines were perilously short. “Easy place for something to hide.”

“Same goes for us. We’ll skip the fire tonight - should be close to our destination tomorrow anyways, so it won’t hurt. I’d tell you to keep your eyes peeled for anything we might be able to eat, but I don’t know if you-”

“Courier taught me a few things.” Boone cut Veronica off. “Yeah. I got it.”

The hike through the brush was more difficult. Uneven ground had him using muscles he hadn’t needed in months, and by the time they made camp both his feet and calves burned. Veronica was similarly exhausted, and they spent the night in silence, watching the tree shadows cast by moonlight ripple with the wind.

Boone didn’t have the sense of unease, of something watching them. He took comfort in that, at least, and gazed at the stars glimmering above.

\--

By the time the sun had begun to rise the following morning Boone would have been glad to never see a tree again. His bare arms were covered in scratches, and his t-shirt had a hole from where a branch had snagged it. Veronica was unusually quiet, checking her pip-boy every few minutes. He was about to ask her if they were lost when she took off at a jog.

“Shit.” he muttered, chasing after her. “God _damn_ it, Veronica-” He didn’t want to shout, even though he couldn’t imagine anything else in the tangle of wood and brush. He lost sight of her, and felt panic crawl up his throat.

“Boone! Come here!” Veronica shouted from somewhere to his right. She didn’t sound distressed, at least - if anything, she sounded _excited._

The trees cleared out quite suddenly when he followed the sound of her voice, and the sight that awaited him drew him to a standstill.

It was like someone had made a giant scar in the world, dragged a knife through it. Ridges that ran deeper than he could comprehend, rock seeming as if it was on fire lit by the rising sun. It was a stark contrast to the purple sky of dawn above them, and he found his breath stolen from him.

Veronica stood on a little rocky outcropping, dangerously close to the cliff edge. She gestured him over, and dumbly he clambered up beside her.

He could see the world drop away from him on either side, the canyon floor far enough away that he was sure he could fit the Lucky 38 into it. Boone’s chest felt tight - if only Carla could see it, maybe she’d know there was beauty beyond the Strip, beyond the West.

Veronica smiled beside him. “Pretty as a postcard, don’t you think?”

“Yeah.” It was all he could offer in response. The idea of the Legion crawling over such a place made him a little nauseous, but from where he stood he couldn’t imagine they’d be allowed to exist on such ground. Maybe that was why so many tribes were drawn to it. Something about it felt sacred.

“Grand enough for you?” Veronica’s barb drew him out of his reverie, and he scowled up at her.

“Yeah.” He repeated, a little more glumly.

“Don’t look so put out. We’ll follow it ‘til we hit the Sierra Madre.” she hopped down from the outcropping, checking her pip-boy once more. “And we’ll come this way on our way back. If we’ve still got enough supplies, maybe we’ll have a picnic.”

Though she didn’t elaborate further, Boone recognized the anxious edge to her voice. They were close, now - close to finding out whether or not they’d come all this way for nothing.

“A picnic sounds nice.” he replied, his own weak attempt at reassuring her. Veronica cast a lopsided grin his way, and he joined her on flatter ground. Now he noticed green beneath his feet - _grass._

“Let’s hustle.” 

They picked their way along the cliff edge, heading east - squinting at the rising sun. Boone kept his head down. Even with his sunglasses, the light hurt his eyes. He’d intended to keep his gaze low until the sun reached its zenith and they camped in the shade once again, but after only an hour’s walk he found himself colliding with Veronica’s back.

“The f-” he began, before he’d realized why she’d stopped. 

They’d rounded a corner of the canyon, exposing a part of the landscape they’d been unable to see until just then. Before them was a red cloud, like blood in the water. It spanned miles to the north, stopped by the canyon to the south. The trees before it were barren. He didn’t know how far it went to the east.

_The Cloud._

The Sierra Madre awaited.


	11. Chapter 11

The two of them approached the Cloud in silence. It spanned up high enough that as they neared it the sunlight began to fade, filtered through the dust and tinged bright red. Dead trees groaned around them, and he could make out the faintest drone coming from beyond.

It was like the wall before a truly great sandstorm, if one could freeze time. The Cloud lay thick, but ended sharply. A veil between the world he knew and the world beyond.

The Courier had traversed it. That knowledge kept his fear at bay.

Veronica had no such luck. Her arm shook as she raised her pip-boy, pausing several yards from the Cloud’s edge. “Okay. We’ve got some time before our door opens. Elijah’s research says it moves with the heat, shifting air currents, all- I’m babbling.” She took a deep breath to steel her nerves and set her pack on the ground. Her hands were still shaking when she brought forth a length of rope and tied one end around her belt. She offered the other to him. “Visibility’s going to be bad in there. This way we don’t get separated.”

Boone took the rope without a word and knotted it around one of his belt loops. He rolled his shoulders and took deep breaths of his own, knowing that it was likely to be the last clean air entering his lungs for a while. Not too long, he hoped. It was harder to ignore just how miniscule he felt in the presence of such a phenomenon, though - even without the knowledge of what it was about to do to him.

“Hey, Boone, before we go in there.” Veronica piped up again, her attempt at keeping her voice even obvious even to him. “Thanks. I’m… I’m really glad I don’t have to do this alone.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. He wanted to tell her to stuff her gratitude, that he didn’t deserve it. 

That wouldn’t help much now.

Instead he stared at his feet.

“Okay.” she breathed, hoisting her pack back over her shoulders and turning her attention back to her pip-boy. He watched her fiddle with the dials, code streaming down the dusty screen. Its radio crackled. “This is where the tinkering comes in. I installed some environmental sensors - it’ll let us know when the gaps start closing around us. That’s when we pick up the pace.”

“How will we know?”

“I tried to get a proper music tone or something, but the speakers are fried. So we’ll have to deal with the static. If this guy starts kicking up like someone cut the signal to Radio New Vegas, we’re in the danger zone. The geiger counter’s going to be constant, so I hope you like ticking.” Veronica had placed the rad-x bottle in her pocket for just such an occasion, but Boone wondered just how much good a pill was going to do against the behemoth in front of him.

“Alright. You said it’s three miles. That’s… an hour, if we’re fast.”

“If we get a straight shot at it. We’ll be following air pockets, so there’s probably going to be some doubling back.” Veronica didn’t take her gaze away from her pip-boy now, watching the readout carefully. “Who knows what’s living in there, so be careful. We probably shouldn’t talk once we’re in, either.” She looked sheepish, likely realizing the advice didn’t need to be given when it came to Boone. 

“Yeah.” he acknowledged anyway, pulling his rifle strap up and over his head and setting the weapon down on the ground next to where Veronica had dropped her pack. Now he felt truly exposed - all they had were their canteens and what trail food they could stuff in their pockets.

“Got a marker set on the pip-boy so don’t look _too_ sad. If we live through this, we’ll come back to grab our stuff. Now get ready.” The former scribe tugged her scarf up to cover her nose and mouth, and Boone did the same. “Ten… nine…”

As Veronica counted down, he saw a ripple in the cloud above them. It swelled, arching up and away from the ground, leaving only wispy rust-colored tendrils behind. A gap.

“... one. Go.”

They stepped past the threshold and into the fog.

It seemed safe enough, given the circumstances. His eyes stung a little, as did his nostrils, but no worse than what he’d dealt with back in California where summers were marked by fire. Veronica walked slowly in front of him with her gaze fixated on the pip-boy. Even though she was only a handful of feet in front of him the fog had given her a thin cloak, and for far from the first time he was thankful for Veronica’s foresight. The rope that tied the two of them was all of the reassurance they were going to get. The world was silent save for the steady tick of the geiger counter - and that distant drone.

Every so often they’d turn sharply to the left or right, in some cases turning back entirely. It was hot within the cloud - while he couldn’t see the sun anymore, he could still feel its heat. The blood tinged world around him was oppressive. Sweat dripped down Veronica’s forehead.

Boone lost track of time. Occasionally they’d find a corpse - skeletons, really. He figured the Cloud was as hungry for flesh as it was for anything else. Better that than wondering what else could pick them clean. They crossed one with a collar around its neck - even calcified and rusting terribly, its purpose was clear.

He didn’t speak, even though he could see the stress growing on Veronica’s face. Distracting her was a bad idea.

As time passed he found himself wishing _he’d_ have a distraction, at least. With every shift of the fog his eyes kept trying to find patterns, dazed and mesmerised by the wisps of smoke coiling around each other. It was difficult to focus, his eyes straining in his attempt to keep watch.

Then he saw it.

A silhouette. Humanoid, several yards away to their right. It was stationary, a shadow in place.

Another sound broke the silence.

Breathing.

Rasping, but not in the way ghouls did. As if it was playing through a radio, or a walkie-talkie. Not human, he knew that much - every inhalation was watery, held for too long to be possible. Each exhale crackled like crumpled paper. 

_Ghost people._

Boone wished he had his rifle.

It hadn’t noticed them, at least. Slowly, quietly, they maneuvered past it. He looked over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of glowing goggles behind them, before the creature was swallowed by the thickening fog.

They passed two more as they snaked through the Cloud, and crept past both successfully. Veronica’s radio remained silent, her geiger counter ticking so slowly and quietly he’d forgotten about it. The silence felt deafening, somehow - and even Boone was beginning to feel the effects of the quiet. It felt like they were wandering in circles, the origin of the droning in the distance impossible to pinpoint. Part of him wanted to yell, just to change anything about his static surroundings.

He stared at the rope connecting him to Veronica, swinging back and forth with every step like a pendulum. His eyelids felt heavy.

_Sleep._

The voice in his head had an identity - the Courier - murmuring so softly he nearly didn’t recognize it. Instead of comforting him, however, it set him on edge. He was about to break the rules and tell Veronica he’d begun to fucking hallucinate, but something else broke the silence first.

Her radio.

It made the two of them jump, the way it suddenly crackled to life. In normal circumstances, he’d likely never have noticed it - it was quieter than their footsteps - but in the Cloud it was impossible to ignore. 

Veronica walked faster, but the radio static only increased in volume. Soon the two of them were jogging through the fog. The few times Veronica looked to and fro offered Boone a look at her face - and the sheer panic on it wasn’t a good sign.

He caught movement in the fog when the radio static was loud enough to overwhelm their footsteps. _Crows._ Or something like them - fluttering and flapping shapes that passed in front of the sun, cast shadows across his face. Veronica didn’t see them even as they flew in front of her. Boone didn’t know if they were real. Numbness was beginning to spread through his body. He didn’t even know if _he_ was real.

_Sleep. You’ve always wanted to. Why not?_

The rope between him and Veronica swung like a hangman’s noose.

_Untie it. Let her go on without you. What can you do to help? You don’t have a rifle. You’re useless. She wouldn’t even notice you were gone._

Veronica whimpered in front of him. He shook his head and tried to tighten his grasp on reality. His feet felt leaden, but he couldn’t stop. 

_I’m not going to die here._

As if the Cloud itself could hear him, the radio static softened. Veronica’s pace in front of him evened out, and the fog around them was empty of shadows. He heard her breathe a sigh of relief, and thought their luck had turned.

The journey continued.

The Courier had walked this path, hadn’t she? What did she see? What spoke to her? Did madness creep over her as it did him? Or was Elijah more fortunate in his pathfinding?

Their last meeting had begun to play on loop in his head, projected on the back of his eyelids. Her tired eyes. The atrophy of her muscles, how limply her clothes hung on her body. She wasn’t well. He knew it then, and wondered if he was now witnessing the why of it. They hadn’t even reached the Sierra Madre, and already he felt as if life was leaving him.

If he let go of his attempt to focus, he could almost feel her arms around him again. 

Boone didn’t know how much time passed him by until a new sight greeted him. Another one of the Ghost People.

This one, however, was not standing in the fog.

It stood a few meters in front of them, unobfuscated by the fog. The yellow of its hazmat suit had dirtied to a dark green color, the rust from its gas mask spilling down the front of it and staining the cloth. It held onto a makeshift spear and leaned against it like an old man, its back to the two of them.

There was no way around it. 

Veronica stood as still as the figure did, frantically scanning her pip-boy screen. Boone couldn’t make head or tails of whatever she was looking for, but he did see that its dials had already rusted so severely as to be unusable.

They were running out of time. The fog was closing up behind them.

Static rang out from Veronica’s radio once more, and the figure let out the rasp of a dying man and turned.

They moved worse than they looked. It was as if the creature was fighting the old suit to move, imprisoned in its own body, twitching and jerking with limbs bent at odd angles. It was hard to keep track of where the spear tip was, and worst of all the fucking thing was _fast._

It went for Veronica, the source of the static noise. She dodged the first two swipes, a practiced hand when it came to combat at close quarters. As the slack in the rope tightened with her movements Boone felt himself tugged along with her. The two of them were as crippled as the creature was when it came to flexibility.

He tried to use it to his advantage, ducking a swing of the spear and stepping around the creature, trying to trip it up. Veronica drew back her fist and punched it in the glass visor of its hazmat suit. It shattered, blinding the thing - but Boone saw red streaming down her knuckles.

The spear sliced through the air again, any sound of its movement drowned out by the creature’s stuttered gasps. It severed the rope connecting the two of them as if it didn’t even exist. Dumbstruck, Boone wondered how sharp the blade must have been to do so before he heard fabric tear.

Blood bloomed across his t-shirt, and he realized the blade had connected with him. There was no pain, but he didn’t have time to note anything more than that as the creature continued to flail. He scrambled out of reach of the spear, but couldn’t see Veronica.

The severed rope hung limply from his belt, as if to mock him. He heard more rasping from deeper within the fog.

He had to make a blind go of it. More were coming, and he was weaponless. He glanced down at the blood now staining his shirt, and wondered if he was going to die here after all.

Veronica burst back out of the fog in front of him, gasping silently. She looked relieved upon seeing him, and took hold of his arm with her hand that wasn’t covered in blood.

They ran.

Breaking into the Cloud as its full strength was dizzying. All of the weakness of the hour ( _hours?_ ) before returned instantaneously, and the two of them stumbled forward. It was difficult to see, but they could hear the Ghost People roused behind them and knew there was nowhere to go but forward.

His lungs burned. The fog twisted into shapes around him, faces, bodies, crosses. Red, red, red - blood and flame and the Legion, Lanius’ scowling visage. Crows and cacti and blackjack tables. The static of Veronica’s radio roared, and he wondered if they hadn’t both died and had gone to hell.

But Veronica was still in front of him, audibly crying. She was fated for a better place than he was.

Her pip-boy was on the arm she clung to him with, and he saw the screen flickering, streams of data tearing and blinking out of existence. Even if they survived this, he didn’t know how they were going to make it back.

The Courier made it back. She’d survived and come back to him, one last time.

Veronica stumbled in front of him and fell to her knees, wheezing and gasping for air. He bent down and lifted her up into his arms. She was almost too heavy to carry, his arms were so weak - but he pushed onward despite the pain that now shot through him.

He had a promise to keep, and for once in his miserable existence he was going to do something right.

Boone ran even when he couldn’t see anymore, pain rippling up his calves with every strike of his feet against the ground. Veronica was murmuring words he couldn’t understand.

The air grew cooler. He realized the rasping behind them had faded, and so had the pip-boy’s static.

There was only the drone. It wasn’t quite that anymore, though - it sounded like a siren, distorted and decayed as his mind. Clearer, louder, echoing.

Boone dared to open his eyes, and found that they no longer stung. Veronica must have had the same idea before him - she was peering at their surroundings, and fidgeted in his arms. He set her down and found she was able to stand, if weakly.

They were free of the Cloud - the air was clearer, and he sucked it in hungrily. The world around them was still blood red - it must have still been daytime. A wall stood before them, its surface grimy stucco. In front of it, spaced neatly apart, were the dismembered corpses of ghost people. A spear was thrust neatly into each of the limbless bodies, as if meant to pin them to the ground. Veronica stumbled forward and pulled one of the spears free. Boone did the same.

“I-” Veronica started, her voice dry. She looked as if she’d nearly forgotten how to speak. Boone had nearly forgotten what human voices sounded like. “I’m so sorry-” Each word was gasped out.

“Save your breath.” he replied, not ungently. He was struck by how thirsty he was, and was relieved to find that at least the cap of his canteen hadn’t rusted shut. Veronica followed his advice. They were mimicking each other, trying to remember what normalcy was.

“Are you okay?” Veronica spoke once she’d taken several gulps of water. “Your chest.”

Boone looked down at the wound he’d received properly. His shirt was sliced cleanly, at least - no fibers had gotten into the wound. The slash in his flesh was as clean as the one through the fabric - and not too deep, on closer inspection. Infection wasn’t an immediate worry - by the time it would be, they should be back at the Followers outpost. If they weren’t, there were worse things than infection he’d be dealing with. 

“Yeah. I’m alright.” he answered. “How long…”

Veronica squinted at her decaying pip-boy. “Six hours. Got a few before sunset.” She leaned heavily against the spear, and Boone found himself doing the same. Weakness seemed to have settled into his bones. 

Suddenly she straightened up, pointing to the right. He followed her line of sight.

Faint blue light cut through the red, spilling out through a hole in the wall large enough to fit three people across. A way in. With no other option, the two of them shambled toward it. 

The hole in the wall led to a courtyard of sorts - and the source of the blue light. It was the ghost of a woman, shimmering blue and flickering in and out of sight. She hovered atop a fountain, the waters long since dry. As they drew closer, he saw that her lips were moving - but no sound came out. Along with the drone of the decaying siren, he could hear snatches of music - looping gasps of strings fading in and out of static. 

“A hologram.” Veronica gasped, sitting down heavily on the fountain’s edge once she reached it. Boone was vaguely aware of what a hologram was, relieved that they didn’t have to worry about ghosts alongside ghost people. Veronica closed her eyes, slouched forward, and rested her cheek against her spear. “I’m so tired, Boone.”

He sat down on the ground next to her and leaned back against the fountain. “Yeah.” he choked out, too exhausted to do much else. Now that he was sitting, he didn’t want to get back up.

“Geiger counter’s quiet.” she mumbled. “Might be safe if we just… rest a while…”

Boone couldn’t argue. He couldn’t move even if he wanted to - all adrenaline had left him. Veronica looked to be in much the same state as he was.

Their fate was in fortune’s hands.

He closed his eyes.

It was dark when he opened them again, the deepened shadows the color of dried blood - black and deep brown. He could see by the blue light of the hologram, but not far.

Fortunately, he didn’t need to see far to spot what had awoken him.

A woman.

She was shorter than even Veronica and held a rifle nearly as long as she was tall. Strange and vicious scars lay in precise lines around her mouth, neck, and skull. Her hair was brown and only a couple of inches long.

The woman’s attention was focused on Veronica - she must not have noticed he’d woken up, his eyes masked by his sunglasses. He saw a tear trail down her face.

“Veronica?” She sounded as if she’d forgotten how to speak, too. 

Veronica stirred, blinking sleepily up at the woman for a heartbeat before her eyes snapped wide.

“Tina?”

Boone didn’t know how to describe the feeling that flooded his veins. It was like relief, but more intense, warmer. Comforting.

It’d been worth it.


	12. Chapter 12

It was hard to keep his eyes open. The world seemed to blur in front of him, his vision fraying at the edges. He could see Christine’s silhouette lean over to Veronica, heard the telltale click and hiss of a stimpak and indistinct murmuring. 

“It’s not safe out here.” Christine rasped, keeping her voice quiet. Her shadow moved into his vision, kneeling down in front of him. 

There was a sharp sting in his thigh, then a familiar boneless sensation. Warmth shot through his veins, his pain dulling to an ache. Boone’s vision grew clearer, the woman in front of him taking shape once more. Tears had made tracks through the dust and grime on her face, but her eyes were steely.

“Those are the only stimpaks I have. Can you walk?”

It took him a moment to realize she was addressing him. Veronica had stood, leaning up against her spear at Christine’s side.

“Yeah.” he croaked, struggling to his feet.

“Good. I have a hideout not far from here. Stay quiet and stay close.”

Boone didn’t have the energy to tell her he was incapable of making noise even if he’d wanted to. She took hold of Veronica’s hand and began to lead her to an alleyway cloaked in shadow. He’d have never known it was there. All he could do was follow in silence, all of his focus devoted to putting one foot in front of the other. 

The only light came from the flickering hologram of the fountain, fast disappearing behind them, and spotlights illuminating a grand building on a hill overlooking the town they were snaking through. All of the streets and alleys looked the same, cobblestone and stucco tinged red from the ever present Cloud above, but Christine navigated them with ease. They clambered over rubble and slipped through holes in buildings - he caught glimpses of moldering hotel rooms, suitcases open and half packed, rotting floral dresses draped over chairs. Whatever bones remained were covered in what looked like rust.

It wasn’t a place anyone was meant to live.

Yet it reminded him of home - he didn’t know if it was the lingering effects of the Cloud, but the architecture brought back memories of the coast. Of home. Tiled rooftops and wrought iron balconies, resort towns on the sand. It was more a mockery than anything, twisted, corrupted - and he realized it fit the image of what home had become in his mind.

They climbed a staircase, walked along the top of the wall encircling the town, until at last they came to the tallest structure Boone could make out in their vicinity - save the hotel itself. Even in his altered state he marked its purpose immediately - a bell tower likely turned sniper’s nest, if Christine’s rifle was any indication. She released Veronica’s hand and lifted her up into her arms much as Boone had hours before, and pushed open the door to a spiralling stairwell. She didn’t glance back his way. He couldn’t blame her.

Their progress upward was slow, the metal staircase creaking with every step, handrails coated with rust. By the time they were halfway up he clung to them, dragging himself forward. Rust coated his hands like blood, and his muscles ached. Iron was thick on his tongue. It felt as if he was crawling out of hell, desperately seeking safety after crossing through countless circles.

Either he’d be allowed passage - allowed life - or his body would give out and he’d tumble back to the darkness below.

Somehow, he was worthy.

The air was cooler, at the top of the tower. Whatever bell was meant to reside at the top of the tower was missing. A single mattress laid on the floor. Christine had sat Veronica down upon it, and was in the midst of shuffling through one of the boxes that accompanied the mattress on the floor - supplies, he assumed. Water bottles were scattered near them. He drug himself to one of the intact walls and leaned against it, watching a tarp strung in front of one of the missing walls drift in the breeze.

Christine spoke again at last, but not to him. 

“How long were you out there?”

“Six hours.” Veronica murmured in reply, earning a sharp hiss from Christine. She looked over Veronica’s battered hands and started tending to them, pouring clear liquid over them. Veronica didn’t make a sound.

“You’re lucky to be alive.” Christine dabbed Veronica’s knuckles dry with a cloth before wrapping them in bandages with a tenderness Boone recognized all too well. 

Veronica smiled weakly, lopsidedly - eyes playful even despite her exhaustion. “Luckier than that, even.”

“You’re delirious.”

“Maybe.” Veronica closed her eyes. “I missed you.”

Christine stilled, fingers brushing along Veronica’s knuckles. She visibly swallowed. “You’re not wearing Brotherhood robes.” 

“No, I’m not.” Veronica agreed - Boone didn’t quite understand the significance of the exchange, but the momentary silence afterward felt heavy. “Your voice is different.”

“Guess we’ve both changed.” Christine returned to shuffling through the box of supplies.

“Bits, maybe.” Veronica reached out and placed a bandaged hand on Christine’s shoulder. She stilled again. “Not what’s important, though. Not for me.”

Christine shut her eyes tightly and drew back. Veronica’s hand slipped off her shoulder and fell limply to her side. “Why are you here?”

Whatever emotion had hung in the air evaporated, burned away by Christine’s withdrawal. Veronica slumped backward and rested her hands on her knees. “The Courier told me Elijah was here.”

“You… you knew her?” By Christine’s tone, even Boone knew that a great wealth went unsaid. Hope and fear battled their way across her expression.

“Yeah. She’s a good friend.” 

_Was,_ Boone corrected internally. He felt the familiar pain in his chest - worse than the bleeding wound carved into it in the Cloud.

“I didn’t come here for Elijah, though.” Veronica leaned forward, her voice so quiet it was only the close quarters that allowed Boone to hear. “I came here for you.” 

Christine dropped her head and stared at her lap. He saw her hands ball up into fists, white-knuckled. It reminded him of himself, and suddenly he understood why the woman had remained long after the Courier’s departure. 

“Who’s he?”

Boone jolted, reminded suddenly of his own existence. He’d been a silent witness to an exchange he had no right to see - a reunion that only reminded him of the void he felt within. Christine looked at him suspiciously, but there was a trace of hurt in her eyes. The woman wore her emotions plain as the scars on her face. Boone realized what responsibility had fallen onto his shoulders, and spoke before Veronica could speak for him.

“I knew the Courier.” He swallowed thickly, gathering his energy to speak. Veronica wore a mix of shock and pride. “Loved her.” He corrected, and Christine’s eyes widened, any suspicion melting off of her features. “Never did anything about it. Now she’s gone. Couldn’t save her. Too much of a coward to die, and couldn’t live with myself as I was.” 

Christine stared at him as if she was looking in a mirror. Boone smiled without humor. This was what it’d all lead to - the path he’d set on so many months ago. It was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders at last. He wanted to say more, but with relief came exhaustion once more.

“Oh, shit.” Christine murmured, as Boone’s consciousness faded.

\--

_He dreamt of California. Wrestling with his older brothers, competing for his father’s attention. Hauling slop out to the brahmin pen. Heat and smoke from the fires in the summer. His skin turned red from the harsh sunlight. Looking east and hoping - praying - for something better. Lying in bed, delirious from a fever that ripped through their settlement - killing several of his friends._

“It’s infection. Residue from the Cloud must have gotten in.”

“Oh god. Oh, **god**. He came here because of me-”

“Breathe. There’s a medical clinic here. Once you’re recovered enough, we can try and haul him over. Let’s pray the ghost people think you’re one of mine.”

“Can we wait that long?”

“I don’t know.”

_He felt hands on him. Carla always rested her hands on his shoulders, liked to admire the span of them. She said he made her feel safe. The world moved, he was spinning - dancing with her, her hair as golden as the sunlight, perfume intoxicating. She’d seen him of all people, chosen him - she had been just as overlooked as he was. Where he looked east, she looked west, both trying to grasp something greater, more meaningful - and they’d found each other in the middle._

_A heartbeat in his ears. His cheek at her belly, palm on the swell of it, enraptured by the idea that someone like him could help make something so perfect. Carla looked afraid, but she couldn’t have known what was to come - could she?_

“Tina, his lips are going blue-”

“We’re almost there.”

Radio static, warped voices from the Old World. 

_Cold and warmth all at once. Substances moving through his veins trying to combat the fever. The scent of his own blood thick in his nostrils. He felt as if his soul was trying to leave his body as he trembled violently, spirit seeking sweet release at last - but strong hands held him down, arms of iron. The Courier. Dark hair fell about his face, soft, smelling of datura and gunpowder. He reached out to touch it and heard her whisper that she loved him. An anchor to the world, even if he’d forget it._

\--

Light.

Light and metal.

Boone snapped his eyes shut as soon as he’d opened them, feeling cold steel at his back. He lifted an arm and found his strength returned to him. His palm met metal in front of him. He was upright, that much he knew.

A hiss, and the steel in front of him slid away. He opened his eyes and was greeted by what looked like a clinic of sorts in front of him. He stumbled out into a horror show.

Old blood stained the floor brown and black. Headless skeletons laid on gurneys. A handful of explosive collars were strewn across molding countertops. The sight of them ignited unwanted memory in him, thoughts he’d chased away.

The Courier had worn one around her neck. Nearly had become one of the corpses in front of him. Instead she’d become a corpse in the desert. _He’d let her come here alone, he’d left her, left her-_ the thought played on loop in his head. Nausea overtook him, and he stumbled forward, shoving open the clinic doors.

He’d been no more than three steps through them into the reception area beyond when a small body collided with his, arms wrapping around him and gripping him tightly.

“I’m so sorry-” Veronica’s voice was muffled against him. Boone saw Christine slouched in a chair in the waiting area with dark circles under her eyes. A wealth of food wrappers littered the ground around them, marking the passage of time - though his attention was grabbed by a bulging duffle bag.

“How long was I out?”

“Four days.” Christine answered as Veronica withdrew and hastily wiped tears from her eyes. “Welcome back, Lazarus.” Her smile was a hesitant if genuine one - she seemed more at ease than she was at their first meeting.

Boone nodded dumbly. “The… the skeletons-”

Christine’s face darkened. “I never meant to come back here.” she offered in explanation. “If I had any idea, I’d clean things up.”

Veronica looked over her shoulder at Christine, the women exchanging meaningful glances.

“How are you feeling?” Veronica inquired, turning back to him.

Boone rolled his shoulders experimentally, putting the sights in the room beyond into the realm of nightmares for later. He glanced down at the tear in his shirt. The wound beneath had scabbed over - it throbbed with pain when he moved his arms too sharply, but otherwise seemed to be on the mend. “Fine.”

Christine pressed her lips together. “Then I’m getting you two out of here.” She nudged the duffel bag with her boot. “Should be more than enough supplies to get you back in there.”

He walked over to sling the bag over his shoulders. It was heavy, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Veronica remained where she stood, a deep furrow in her brow. 

“You aren’t coming with us?” he asked.

“Elijah wanted to use the Cloud as a weapon. He wanted to turn the Sierra Madre into a fortress. He failed, but there’s no shortage of evil men in the world.” Christine answered, standing. 

“And there’ll be no shortage long after you’re gone.” Veronica replied. She folded her arms across her chest, dark eyes piercing. It seemed as if the argument was a practiced one, from how Christine sighed.

“You found your way here. Others will too. If it wasn’t for the Courier, Elijah might have succeeded.” She seemed to be speaking more for his benefit than Veronica’s. “The Sierra Madre needs a warden. Now come on - if we hurry you’ll be back in the wilderness before sunset.” Christine was through the clinic doors before Veronica could broker any argument.

“She doesn’t think she deserves to be happy.” Veronica’s voice was very small - smaller than he’d ever heard it. “I don’t know what I can say.”

Boone put his hand gently between her shoulder blades, giving her a nudge toward the door. “I know what it’s like.” he said quietly, following her to the exit. “Don’t ask her to do it for herself - she doesn’t care about that. But she cares about you.”

Veronica’s eyes shone as she pushed open the door. “I hope you’re right.”

\--

Christine was waiting at the corner of the street several meters down. She started moving again when they approached, keeping a moderate distance - she made a show of scouting ahead, but Boone knew the motivation behind her mannerisms. She didn’t fear what dangers lurked in the villas. She feared what Veronica saw - the reminder that she’d always had a choice.

He was caught up in wondering how she felt as the three of them navigated the streets and alleys, taking detours where the Cloud had begun to swallow passage and Ghost People wandered. Three years since the Courier disappeared, three years Christine had spent in this lonely hell, scarred and surrounded by nightmare. He’d nearly broken apart when he realized his pain was part of his own making - he couldn’t imagine the panic she must have felt at the idea that she could have been free years ago. That she could be loved.

Veronica marched forward in front of him, determination woven into every fabric of her being. She tried to catch up to Christine, but her partner knew the landscape better than she.

People might have called him simple for it, but Boone was struck by how their surroundings echoed their minds. The place must have been beautiful once - the shining hotel was still a beacon that even he felt drawn to. A hidden treasure of the Old World, a symbol of the past - and all the rot that it held. A dying limb, suffocating in the Cloud, degrading, filled with men who could not die. Something he’d once been, something he was so close to being again.

He thought of the Courier as they walked, wondered if she’d thought the same. She’d be able to put it to words - she was always good at that - and maybe she’d help him understand more in the process. Then again, she didn’t have a guide to help her through such a place. The collar around her neck probably kept her from dwelling on the abstract.

A glimmer of blue drew him from his thoughts. They were approaching the courtyard again - and the dying hologram of the woman.

Christine spoke at last. “The man who built this place - it was all for the woman he loved. He knew the world was going to end, and spent everything to have a place for them to be safe. There’s a vault under the hotel.” As she approached the fountain, the light cast her face into view - and the mournful expression she wore. “But they didn’t make it. If they did, he had an escape tunnel to get them both out once the worst of it was over.” 

Boone watched, fascinated, as Christine lifted one of the stones of the fountain, revealing a keypad and a small speaker. 

“The only people who could enter the vault - and this tunnel - were the man who built this place and the woman he cared about.” She gestured at the scar by her throat. “They ripped out my vocal cords. Replaced them.” Christine knelt down and pressed a button by the speaker. “ _Begin Again._ ”

The ground beneath his feet seemed to quiver. Christine hastily stepped back as the stones beneath her feet started to move, dropping down to create a staircase leading beneath the fountain.

“So that’s how she got out.” Boone muttered.

Christine nodded. “I’m… I’m sorry she’s gone. I didn’t know her long, but she was the kind of person you remember. The kind of person the world needs.” Boone noted she was avoiding looking Veronica in the eye. “It’s a one way trip - there’s a drop into a pool, and no way back up.” Christine drew herself up to her full height - still shorter than even Veronica. Her tone grew more professional - reminded him of the NCR. “There’s more than food in that bag. Some Old World things you can research or sell. A bit of tech. I know it won’t make the journey worthwhile, but-”

Veronica stepped forward and placed a hand on Christine’s shoulder, the other to her cheek. “I don’t care. I came here for you. If you’re not going, I’m staying.”

“Veronica-”

“ _No._ ” Her eyes watered, catching the light of the hologram, shining and glimmering. “I’m not leaving you again.” Veronica leaned forward, resting her forehead against Christine’s. “I love you. I never stopped - I tried to, but even after all these years - I couldn’t forget. Nothing and no one could ever compare. If you don’t love me, I’ll go - but I know you do.”

It was as if a dam burst within Christine, the tears flowing fast and freely. “I let you go.” she whispered. “I didn’t fight. I should have left, I should have been strong like you. You deserve-”

Her words were muffled as Veronica pulled her in for a kiss, fingers trembling. Boone averted his eyes, feeling as if he was trespassing.

“Please.” Veronica said softly. “I’ll stay here if I have to, but you deserve better. We deserve better.” She swallowed. “We can begin again. Somewhere new. Somewhere beautiful. I’ll wear a dress, we can be married by a waterfall like we always dreamed.”

“You… you still…”

“ _Yes._ ” Veronica laughed weakly. “See what I see. A beautiful, wonderful, strong woman who went to hell to do right and survived. You finished the job. Now it’s time to go home.”

Christine was silent for a few moments, trying to even out her breathing. Boone didn’t realize he was holding his own breath.

“Okay.” she said at last. Veronica made a noise reminiscent of a squeal, and threw her arms around her, holding her tight. 

Boone could hear Christine say _I love you_ , even muffled against Veronica’s chest.


	13. Chapter 13

It took a few moments for the women to get their bearings. When at last they released each other, Christine cast Boone a somewhat sheepish look.

“Okay.” she breathed. “Still meant what I said earlier. If we’re fast we’ll make it out before sunset.”

Veronica beamed at the use of _we_ , and practically skipped down the stairs to the escape tunnel after Christine. Boone followed, casting a glance back at the Sierra Madre as he descended. The Old World beacon disappeared behind stone, and he wondered if he was to be the last man to set eyes on it.

If what Christine had said was true, he hoped he was.

The tunnel itself was much the same as the sewers and maintenance tunnels beneath New Vegas. Walled in concrete, grates beneath to draw back any moisture. Lights - weak and yellow - were set in the walls, casting their surroundings in a strange warm glow. The tunnel was cleaner than any he’d seen - he guessed it’d seen very little use. The last person to travel it was the Courier, and that was years ago.

Boone didn’t like the underground. Neither did the Courier. The two of them were built for wide open skies, stars that seemed to go forever - in such close quarters he felt stifled and perilously aware of himself.

Distantly behind them he heard the sound of scraping stone.

Christine glanced back from where she led, and at Boone’s trouble expression spoke. “The tunnel closes automatically.” He saw a slight crease in her brow - her decision to leave settling over her in full. “I guess they didn’t want to be followed.”

“How far until the exit?” he ventured, trying not to let his own uneasiness show. He was unarmed, Christine held their only rifle in her arms and Veronica’s speartip nearly scraped the concrete ceiling. The underground tended to attract all sorts of things, things that treasured the dark and took poorly to trespassers. Thanks to the Courier at least they were only likely to see three years’ worth, rather than two centuries.

“Not far. A few miles, more or less - I scouted down here once. I didn’t have much to do but explore, really.”

That soothed his worries, at least. Boone felt a little better about being without his rifle.

“We have more supplies.” Veronica piped up. “At the edge of the Cloud. There’s stuff for making camp in there, and some proper food. A change of clothes, too.”

“And my rifle.” Boone added, picking up on where she was going.

Christine glanced down at Veronica’s ruined pip-boy. “Don’t know how you plan on finding it.”

That earned a wince from Veronica. “I went in thinking that this stupid thing would hold.” Reminded of its existence, she gave its black screen an annoyed flick with her finger. “We were along the canyon’s edge, the southwest part of the Cloud. If we’re dumped out close to it, I think we can find it.” She bit her lip. “I’m not just worried about the stuff. If we can get back there we can retrace our steps back to the Followers outpost.”

“Then it’s probably worth making a detour. I don’t remember much about the area. It’s been… a while since I’ve been on the outside. ”

At that, Boone took off his sunglasses and offered them to Christine. “You’ll need these, then.”

She blinked at him, then nodded in thanks. She folded them against the collar of her shirt for safe-keeping. “I’ll put them on just before we head out. I… don’t know how you could see with them on in here, to be honest.”

“You get used to it.” Boone shrugged.

Veronica cast him a thankful smile over her shoulder.

They continued down the tunnel. Boone kept silent - both out of his own desires and circumstance, for Veronica and Christine had much to catch up on. His attention faded in and out with their conversation, names he didn’t recognize and jokes he didn’t understand exchanged. He lost track of time, focused simply on putting one foot in front of the other.

Boone was drawn from his thoughts when their surroundings changed. There was no tunnel further ahead, merely a wall of collapsed stone. A few yards in front of them the floor dropped away.

“It’s a bit of a drop.” Christine warned. She sat down on the ledge and lowered herself down into the pit below. When she released the edge of the tunnel, he heard a light splash.

Veronica peered over, worrying at her lip. She exhaled in relief when Christine called up again.

“The water’s almost hip deep, but I can see sunlight.” There was a trace of wonder to her tone.

It was all the reassurance Veronica needed. She mimicked Christine’s action and dropped down. Boone raised the duffle bag higher - hip deep for Christine meant the water would reach his thighs, but he still didn’t want to take any chances in ruining their supplies. He did his best to ease down, but with the weight of the bag it was difficult to maintain any delicacy. Boone’s hands slipped from the ledge, and he fell into the water heavily.

The splash echoed through the tunnel - he had the wherewithal to bend his knees on impact, at least, but he felt the force of contact reverberate through his bones. It was impossible not to grunt from the shock of it - and the cold water seeping into his boots. He wasn’t looking forward to hiking in such a state.

They were in some sort of natural cavern - small, the red and brown stone worn down in smooth patterns from the water. True enough, shafts of sunlight shone down through cracks above. Veronica and Christine stood at the water’s edge waiting for him, backlit by even brighter sunlight spilling in from around a corner beyond. The air was fresher, cleaner, and he’d forgotten how dearly he’d missed it. If he focused, he could hear faint birdsong.

As he made his way out of the water he took note of pain in his ankle. Nothing too terrible, but it left him limping. Veronica frowned at his approach.

“You okay, big guy?”

“Landed messy.” he explained. “But fine.”

“We should make camp once we find your supplies.” Christine spoke as the three of them made their way for the exit. She was trembling, and Boone didn’t know if it was from the cold water or the prospect of freedom.

Veronica took her hand, and the trembling eased. “Good plan.”

They rounded the corner, and Boone had to shield his eyes. Christine hastily placed the sunglasses he’d given her over her nose.

Boone never thought he’d see anything green again. The rough foliage of the desert spilled into the cave entrance, mixed with ferns in bright green and red. Sand and dirt shifted under his feet.

He could see footprints in the soil ahead of them. Long strides, moving between the foliage as if the footprints’ owner was investigating before finally moving outside. Boone stared at them, and Veronica followed his gaze.

The Courier. Three years couldn’t wipe her presence from such a place, just as it couldn’t wipe her presence from his mind.

Veronica noted he’d paused. “... Boone?”

“I’m fine.” he answered. “Just… letting my eyes adjust.”

The look he got in answer was nearly pitying, and he couldn’t bear to see it. Christine’s expression was hesitant, nervously glancing between what lay beyond and Veronica.

“You were right. We made it before sunset.” Veronica chirped, giving her lover’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Now let’s see where we are.”

It was her turn to lead them, guiding Christine out and into the sun. Boone followed, but unlike Christine he could not stare up at the sky, had no care for the beauty of the canyon ahead. He stared at the footprints, trying to hold onto their image as long as he could.

The three were silent as they stepped further out into the air. They were on a rocky outcropping just below the canyon’s edge - a few feet to their left the ground dropped away for a mile. Shrubbery clung to it, crawling over the edge, and patches of wild grass waved gently in the breeze. Boone heard Christine inhale sharply at the sight of it.

“We made it.” Veronica said quietly at first, before her joy bubbled over and into her speech. “We made it!” She started to laugh, and soon Christine joined her - and then even Boone was chuckling, the relief contagious.

They took a few moments to collect themselves, and then Veronica was leading them along the outcropping, keeping her eyes at the wall of rock to their right. Eventually she found what she was looking for - footholds - and began to climb without a word of warning. It wasn’t far up - Christine scaled the rock with ease and even Boone managed decently despite his injury.

As he drug himself upright he saw tree roots first - then the trees themselves, spanning out as far as he could see. Standing, he noted the two women were staring in the same direction. When he followed their gaze, it was obvious what they were looking at.

The Cloud. A wall of rust colored smoke, the same as it ever was. It was a mile away at most, lit from the front by the lowering sun. They were west of it, then.

“Never thought I’d be relieved to see _that_.” Veronica sighed. “Let’s get our stuff.”

His sodden boots chafed terribly as they hiked east, and his travelling companions looked similarly uncomfortable. Still, it couldn’t quite wipe the smile from Veronica’s face - even though Boone was certain they’d have blisters the size of Legion denarii by the next morning.

Sure enough, as they drew closer to the Cloud and the barren landscape surrounding it, a familiar shape was visible - the only thing other than sand so close to the wall of death. Veronica practically skipped toward it, and even Boone found his pace quickening at the sight of his rifle’s barrel.

Christine hung a ways back while Boone and Veronica reorganized their packs and changed into some dry socks - Veronica tossed Christine an extra pair. It felt good to have his rifle in his hands again. He was grounded in reality properly now, wood and steel reminding him of who and what he was. Now he could protect himself - protect all of them, though he didn’t doubt Christine’s capabilities.

“You walked into it.” Christine murmured, the Cloud reflected in her sunglasses as she stared at it - following the shifting smoke upward until it finally dissipated into the sky.

“Only way to get in.” Veronica replied matter-of-factly, zipping up her backpack. The pot hanging from it clattered against her belt as she slung the pack over her shoulders, ready to head out once more.

“For me.”

Veronica walked back over to her partner. “I’d do more than walk into some fog for you. Come on - it’s behind us now.” To accentuate her point, she took hold of Christine’s shoulders and gently turned her back to the west - to face the sun. “There’s a big world out there.”

“Yeah.” Christine nodded weakly, and Boone saw a tear trail down past her sunglasses. It reminded him of why he felt such a need to wear them - they hid most emotion.

Some feelings could only go hidden for so long.

“Let’s get moving.” He cut in, speaking for the first time in an hour. “Sun’s not getting any higher.” He gestured at it for emphasis, squinting in the light. His eyes were always sensitive, and he wondered if he could bear to look through his scope in the midday light. Still, he’d only spent a handful of days within the Cloud. Christine had spent years, with no light but what the Cloud would permit, a world soaked dim and blood red. She needed eye protection more than he did.

“I think we can bust out the snack cakes when we make camp.” Veronica beamed, threading her arm in Christine’s as they began their hike westward.

They went as far as the sun would allow them, and when the light began to grow dim they made camp among the trees as they had before - what felt like ages prior. True to her word, Veronica handed out wrapped snack cakes after they’d eaten beans from the can, their footwear arranged by the fire to dry. Boone snoozed against a gnarled trunk while his traveling companions spoke to each other in low tones, his belly full and body warm. Contented.

When Christine woke him for his turn to keep watch - the last of the three - her expression looked uneasy. She said nothing about it, though, and he assumed it must have been her unfamiliar surroundings. The moon and stars shone brightly overhead, the trees casting strange shadows in their light. Boone sat on a particularly large and twisted root while the two women slept, listening to the wind blow through the old bark. He found that he, too, had a strange sense of unease - whatever bothered Christine was contagious - but like her he couldn’t quite put it into words. He gripped his rifle to reassure himself, and let his gaze drift to the stars overhead.

Veronica had spoke of them returning home, but Boone didn’t know what that was. He’d fulfilled his promise to Arcade, he’d aided Veronica, he’d gained some of Cass’ forgiveness. The mission Usanagi had given him was complete, at least in his mind - and as she’d said, it did grant him peace. He was able to forgive himself a little. At least, he knew that now he was better than the man he was previously.

The stars never were one color. They glimmered and twinkled, some blue, others white - the rare one purple or red. He felt like one of them - strung up in a void and ever moving, however slowly.

The Followers outpost may have been home for Veronica. Boone surmised that Veronica herself was home for Christine. He, however, had nothing and no one of the sort. What could he do now that his work was done? He’d get the two women back to Peach Springs (well, they’d get themselves there, and he’d follow) and then…

Live, he guessed. Boone had forgotten what that was. For years he’d given himself something to strive toward. Killing as many legionnaires as he could before they finally got him. Defending the Dam, with the Courier. Travelling east and wiping out whatever remained of the Legion - and searching for the Courier. In between those duties, he’d been numbly existing and locked off from all feeling, all pain.

Now… now he was whole, or something resembling it. He knew who he was - he was closer to the boy before Bitter Springs than he’d ever been, and yet worlds away. What had that boy wanted? What did _he_ want?

Boone had to admit he didn’t really know. He glanced down at Veronica and Christine, nestled against each other under the cover of a twisted shrub.

Helping them felt good. Maybe he’d keep doing more of the same, until at last he figured things out.

He had all the time in the world, he supposed.

\--

The next few days gave him an overwhelming sense of deja vu. Traveling back the way they came felt like they were erasing what horrors they’d seen, paving them over with reinforced normalcy. They reached the same place he and Veronica had stared out at the canyon for the first time at sunrise, and he watched Veronica tug Christine along to enjoy the view much as she had him.

The two women sharing a tender kiss was different, though.

Boone had to thank them for showing some restraint. At least, he figured they were restraining themselves. He didn’t know if he’d manage the same composure in their position. If he’d met the Courier again…

Veronica’s insistence that she could yet live had taken root in his mind. Hope was a dangerous thing once it went to seed, and now it was growing out of control. With Carla at least he’d had closure - terrible, terrible closure. That reality was certain, and while visions still crept into his nightmares at least he knew his foe. The subject of the Courier - maybe that was the reason for his constant unease, for feeling as if he was being watched every night they made camp.

He figured it was just seeing the two women’s happiness that had him yearning for his own. Imagining something similar for himself, now that he was granted proof that it was possible. Veronica had spoken of Christine like someone long lost, but she’d never quite given up. Her persistence was rewarded - while his had led to the edge of oblivion.

On their last night camping within the tree cover Christine woke him earlier than usual.

“Hey. Sorry.” she whispered, opening with an apology. There was a pause before she continued - Veronica audibly snoring in the background. “I wanted to talk, if that’s alright with you.”

Boone sat up from his sleeping bag, his initial reaction one of concern. Still, he kept his tone even. “Sure.”

Christine smiled hesitantly and sat down across from him cross-legged. “I know we’re strangers, so stop me if I’m crossing a line. Veronica filled me in about you.”

“Did she.” Boone replied flatly, scrubbing a hand over his face. His stubble was threatening to turn into a full beard - no longer scratching against his palm as fiercely as it once did. His hair, too, was getting longer - strands occasionally falling into his eyes. He made a note to cut it as soon as he could find a mirror. “What did she have to say?”

“That you’ve been through a lot.” she ventured, and he appreciated her keeping things vague. “I… wanted to thank you. I don’t know if I’d have had the strength you did, after everything. She says she wouldn’t have made it to me without you.”

Boone couldn’t help but chuckle humorlessly at that. “I’m better than I used to be. Had… some rough years. Besides.” He shrugged. “Veronica knows what she’s doing. Didn’t really need my help.”

Christine tilted her head, studying him a moment. “... she does.” she agreed. “Still. I’m glad she didn’t have to do everything alone.”

He hummed in agreement. They felt silent for several moments - not uncomfortably.

“What happened in the Sierra Madre?” Boone asked the question that had been plaguing his mind since he first set foot in the Cloud, and Christine blinked at him.

“With the Courier?”

He nodded.

A sigh. Her face twisted, the recalled memories clearly unpleasant ones. “Elijah had us all collared. There were two others. Long gone.” Reflexively, her hand moved to the scar at her throat. “Wish I could have put a bullet in one of them, but… I’m done with revenge. It’s bad for the soul. Never really understood it, until…”

Boone stared down at his boots. “Yeah.”

“We had to find a way in or die. The old radio signals fucked with the collar sensors, made them think we were out of range of Elijah, so even if we slipped by the Ghost People and the Cloud we were in danger of losing our heads. It…” she grimaced. “... none of us took it well, but it bothered the Courier more than the rest of us. From what Veronica told me, she was a completely different person until Elijah was dealt with.”

He tried not to flinch at the images her words conjured. “How’d it happen?”

It was Christine’s turn to smile without humor. “They got down to the vault. I shut down his protection, she lured him close enough to her. Then she ripped his throat out with her teeth. While he was bleeding out on the floor she told him that if he collared people like beasts they’d act like them.”

It brought back memories of crimson cloth, crimson sand. Dead legionnaires and a man slumped against his throne with a bullet between the eyes. _Thumbs down, you son of a bitch._

“What’d you think of it?”

“Part of me wishes I did it myself - but it wouldn’t have happened without me.” she shrugged, fiddling with a stalk of wild grass. “Don’t think I could have done it better myself, if we’re being honest. My face was the last he saw, and that was good enough.”

“You think they’ll look for you?”

“The Brotherhood? Maybe, but from what I understand they’re not in much of a position to mess around in the Mojave anymore now that the Bear has the Dam.”

“The Bear?”

“The NCR.” she rubbed the back of her head. “Someone I used to know called them that.”

“Hm.”

Christine cleared her throat. “Look, this might be going too far, but - Veronica disagrees with you about the Courier. I have to admit that I think you’re wrong, too. The Sierra Madre - the people that survived it aren’t the kind of people to just-”

“It doesn’t matter.” Boone interrupted. He felt pain in his palms and realized he’d been clenching his fist, his nails starting to dig into the flesh. He relaxed his hands and heaved a great sigh. “It doesn’t change things. Either way, she’s somewhere I can’t follow.”

“You can’t tell me that after helping Veronica.” Christine frowned. “After helping _me_.”

“Then you go into the fucking wastes.” he barked. Veronica’s snoring stopped, and she grumbled something in her sleep before rolling to her other side. Boone felt guilt wash over him, cheeks reddening. “... sorry.”

“Apology accepted.” Christine said, a little stiffly. “I guess I just… have trouble reconciling it, after what you’ve done.”

“You stayed back there when you didn’t really have reason to.” Boone jerked his thumb east, back toward where the Cloud no doubt lay. “The things we feel don’t have to make sense.”

She pursed her lips, then nodded. Conceding defeat. “I guess you’re right.” A glance to the moon, dipping ever lower in the sky. “My turn to get some rest. Look, though - I mean it. Thank you.”

Boone didn’t look at her as she stood and padded back over to Veronica’s side. “You’re welcome.” he grumbled.

He glared up at the stars. Their light seemed to taunt him.

\--

Their party dipped into the shallow parts of the canyon as he and Veronica had before the following day, the stone surrounding them only a few meters high. This time, however, Veronica insisted on making camp close to a small spring not too long after their hike began.

“The closest thing I’ve had to a bath in two weeks was that kiddie pool in the cave back there.” She said in a tone that suggested she’d hear no argument, dropping her pack at her feet. Christine wasn’t likely to put up a fight - they had more than enough supplies - and Boone didn’t mind the day of rest. Between the blisters that had bloomed at his heels and the continuing ache of his ankle discomfort had been the primary sensation of their return journey, and he hoped some hours to recover would do him some good.

They set up in a small alcove in the canyon wall, the stone close enough to keep the heat of their fire in when night fell and shielding them from whatever eyes might look down on them from above. Further down the path a set of outcroppings provided the next step in their journey - more rocks to scale to get themselves out of the canyon.

Still, he volunteered to fill their canteens at the spring while Veronica and Christine readied their lunch. After his talk with Christine he hadn’t been eager for conversation - and he was certain his absence would be appreciated. Veronica had teased him about his foul mood only once before realizing it was best to let the matter lie.

The spring was a ten minute walk from their camp, hidden deeper in a branch off of the main canyon. Water tended to attract all sorts of things - especially in the desert - and it was best not to sleep too close to any oasis. Part of him regretted the necessity, though, as he beheld the spring itself.

Clear and _clean_ water bubbled forth from a hole in the canyon wall, spilling down the rocks into a deep and glassy pool. He could see the bottom of it, the curved and smooth stone that made up the basin. Greenery surrounded it, blooming wildflowers and hardy shrubs. The sound of flowing water combined with the beautiful sight was balm to the soul. Boone felt his mood lift.

He knelt down beside the pool, loosening the caps of the canteens and lowering them into the water. He’d have gone for a dip himself, but the growl of his stomach reminded him that lunch was a bigger priority. When the last canteen was filled, he stood and grunted under the increased weight, taking a few more moments to enjoy the calm.

A splash startled him enough to nearly send him onto his back. He watched as a rock the size of a gourd sank down into the pool - and dirt trailed down from where it had fallen from the cliffs above. Boone took his rifle into hand and lifted the scope to his eye, trying to make out the cause. There were no cracks in the canyon wall, nothing to suggest the ground was naturally crumbling - and the stone was _so large_ …

Whatever peace the spring had granted to him evaporated. Boone turned on his heel and jogged back to camp as fast as his ankle would allow.

As he ran out his nerves, however, he started to feel foolish. He could hear Veronica and Christine’s laughter with his approach to camp, and suddenly he wondered if he was just being paranoid. Beyond the canyon was more desert - more nothingness. His nerves were still frayed from the Cloud. Perhaps it really was just the shifting sands dislodging a piece of earth. Boone wanted to believe it - his mind had invented things before, after all, and the sun was shining so brightly above.

By the time he made it back to camp, his rifle was left to hang from it’s strap around his shoulder, the canteens jostling against his opposite hip. The scent of cooking meat reached his nostrils, and hunger overrode anything else. Veronica and Christine welcomed him back with a smile. He sat down beside them and grabbed his share of fried Cram. Peace returned with a full belly - and with his gaze fixed on the cliffs to find nothing strange.

He ended up dozing, feeling safe surrounded by worn sandstone and the gentle conversation of friends. When Boone awoke, the sun had begun to set. Veronica and Christine were absent, his only company the crackling of the fire’s cooling embers. It wasn’t the first time he’d woken up alone in camp - the two women had a habit of sneaking off together, and even he could surmise their reasoning for it.

Boone’s skin itched. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the salt of days of sweat upon it, and sighed. Maybe he’d go for that bath Veronica was so insistent on. Standing with a groan - his ankle giving protest, likely from the strange angle at which he slept - he kept his rifle slung around his shoulders and started his way down to the spring.

All was quiet as he approached, but a sudden splash rendered him frozen. Its cause became clear by the accompanying giggles, cut off by a gasp whose tone he _definitely_ recognized. Boone was about to turn to head back to camp when he heard a terrible thunder behind him

His heart leapt to his throat as he looked over his shoulder, and he cursed himself for his early naivety.

A deathclaw.

It was standing still, watching him - surrounded by the dust and sand its leap from the cliffs above had kicked up. The worst thing about deathclaws - and there were a great many terrible things about them - wasn’t the claws, or the teeth, or the rippling musculature. It was the eyes - for unlike most creatures of the wasteland, unlike even some men, there was a horrible intelligence behind them.

They were cut off from camp. Cut off from escape. Boone put the pieces together just as the deathclaw roared and raised his rifle.

His gunshot made his ears ring, but even he could hear the sudden yells from the spring. The bullet hit the deathclaw’s shoulder but may as well have been a gnat for all it slowed the beast down as it lunged at him. Boone threw himself to the side of it, taking advantage of his smaller size. He ducked as the deathclaw’s tail swung around, and saw Veronica and Christine running up from the spring, their pants rolled up to their knees and feet bare. Veronica’s mouth fell open when she saw their foe, and Christine moved to raise her own rifle.

The two women were too close to the deathclaw - had nowhere to go with their backs to the canyon wall, Boone knew - and in a split second he made his decision. Before the beast could turn its attention to his companions he ripped his boot knife from its holster and sprinted up to the deathclaw, adrenaline granting him a burst of speed. He buried the blade as deep as he could in the beast’s hide, close to the spine.

It was enough to enrage it. Boone only had time to shout “RUN-” before a large and terrible arm swung around and sent him slamming back-first into the canyon wall.

His vision swam, but he saw Christine lower her rifle and grip Veronica’s arm white-knuckled, fleeing to the cliff wall. The deathclaw seemed torn between what prey to pursue, and it bought him enough time to get to his feet and fire off another shot, ensuring the creature’s attention remained firmly upon him as the greatest threat.

The last time Boone had danced was with the Courier, so many years ago - now he did the same with a deathclaw, dodging each pounce and desperately using the narrow canyon to his advantage. He was firing his rifle from the hip, having nowhere near enough time to line up a proper shot and knowing full well that each bullet did little more than infuriate the deathclaw further. His eyes darted between its terrible eyes, vicious claws, and the figures of Veronica and Christine in the distance scaling the cliff wall. They were making good speed, at least - soon they’d crest the top, and Christine would have a vantage point from which to fire.

When they were three quarters of the way up, Boone ducked around the deathclaw one final time and started to sprint back toward camp where the canyon widened, intent on granting himself some more room to maneuver and giving Christine a clear shot. He saw the glint of her scope even as the ground thundered behind him, and prayed her first shot would strike true.

The ground fell away from beneath his feet. Boone heard Veronica scream more terribly than he knew her capable of, worse than he’d ever heard in the Cloud or otherwise. He felt a strange coldness suddenly grip his chest, weakness flowing through his body and his dangling feet. He dropped his gaze to see a claw longer than his forearm protruding through his chest, in the center of the healing slash he’d earned in the Cloud.

There was no pain - only a strange fuzziness growing in the edges of his vision. Boone had been called heartless, once, and he wondered if now it was true. He heard a gunshot, felt his body waver and then be pulled down to the ground, still impaled. The deathclaw collapsed to the ground beside him - his head lolled to the side in time to see the light fade from its eyes.

_My face was the last he saw, and that was good enough._

Christine’s words echoed in his mind as the world went dark.


	14. Chapter 14

Boone always thought it’d be a gunshot that took him out - whether it came from another or his own hand. Death in the desert was the same, at least. He’d imagined that much correctly.

The afterlife was something he didn’t dare imagine. With his sins, hell was likely all that awaited him. He remembered that much from Carla’s readings of that old book - even in death they were doomed to be separated. She was destined for a better place than he was.

He had to admit that he felt some resentment that death came for him now, of all times. For a few days he’d been looking forward to his future - or some emotion close to it, anyways. It figured that he’d have that ripped away from him like everything else.

But he was still dwelling on it, wasn’t he? Did death allow thought? Dreaming? Was this what Carla witnessed, so soon after she stared up at the glint of his scope and nodded? Or was this what hell was - trapped in the endless dark with nothing but his thoughts for company? It would be close to hell for him, if someone asked him a year ago. Now, though, he felt only neutrality at the prospect of living with himself. Boone knew what he was.

Purgatory, then. The same place as his unborn child, unbaptized. The thought gave him a chill.

Soon he couldn’t stop shivering. Why was he so cold? Was he merely in some sort of waiting room, until his final judgement was passed?

He felt a shift in the darkness.

Intense pain pulled him back to consciousness, color and light flooding in as he cracked his eyes open. Everything was blurry, and sound was muted.

Dark eyes stared down at him, set in a lined face framed by grey hair. A woman, her skin the color of earth. She seemed familiar, though he knew they’d never met before. The darkness at the edges of his vision threatened to cloud her out, only scraps of blue sky visible beyond her.

A necklace of turquoise and silver swung as she bent over him - it too felt strangely familiar. He opened his mouth to ask her who she was, but no air came out.

How long had it been? Decades? Centuries?

Liquid was tipped into his mouth, bitter herbs flowing down his throat. All went black once more.

\--

It was raining.

The sound of it against a windowpane was the first thing to break through the blackness he’d been drowning in. He could smell wet soil, feel a faint breeze. When low thunder rolled, his memory returned to him.

_Heavy footsteps. Snarling teeth. Veronica’s scream._

Boone jolted upright, his eyes snapping open. Plastic lines trailed into his arms and hands, and he started to bat at them, all the panic of his last moments - of what he _thought_ were his last moments returning in full force.

Foreign hands, strong and soft, took hold of his wrists. 

“Hey, hey.” A familiar voice spoke. “You’re alright. All friends here.”

Boone wanted to struggle, but his limbs felt strangely heavy. He shivered - the blanket that had been draped over him had fallen when he sat upright, and now his bare torso was exposed to the air. Not quite bare, he realized - bandages were wrapped around his ribcage. He blinked, taking his surroundings in as best he could. The world spun before him. He was in a room with peeling blue wallpaper and hardwood floors. To his right were two narrow beds with clean white linen - or at least the closest to clean white linen that could be found in the wasteland. IV stands stood empty beside them, giving silent vigil. Beyond them was some sort of sun room filled with plants. Rain poured down its windows, distorting whatever landscape lay behind.

Boone turned his head to the left and found the source of the voice - and the hands which held him in place until his heart rate slowed.

Arcade.

His eyes were bloodshot, dark circles lying beneath them. Lines of worry were etched in his forehead - but for the moment all was smoothed away by the smile he wore. He sat in a wooden chair by Boone’s bedside, and judging by the wrinkles in his clothes appeared to have _slept_ in it.

“Am I dead?”

Arcade shook his head. “No.” His smile widened. “No, thank god. Things were touch and go for a while..”

Idly Boone realized that Arcade’s eyes were tearing up. He didn’t know what to make of it. The world still felt fuzzy, dulled - as if he wasn’t quite part of it yet. “How long?”

The man’s smile faltered. “Long enough that I don’t know off the top of my head.”

“Don’t want to know.” Boone closed his eyes to gather himself, and felt a little more rooted in reality when he opened them. “Where are we?”

“Peach Springs.” Arcade released his wrists, falling quiet. When he spoke next, there was a great weight behind his words. “Boone - Craig. I’m so sorry.”

Boone sat slightly hunched, peering between his IV lines and his old comrade in mild confusion. “For what?”

“For sending you out there, for starters.” It was spoken with an exhale, as if it was something he’d been carrying for too long. “And for misjudging you. Veronica told me what you did.”

“She’s alright?” His tongue felt thick and dry in his mouth, and speaking more than four words at a time was difficult. Not terribly out of character for him. Not for the man of years past, at least.

Arcade laughed, more an expression of his relieved nerves than anything. “More than alright, actually. She brought you in. Well, helped bring you in.” He corrected. “She was one of the only people who were sure you’d pull through. Her and-”

A woman stepped into the room, lab coat gleaming white as the linen. Heels clicked against the wooden floor, and her face came into focus.

“Usanagi.” Boone gaped.

Doctor Usanagi’s smile could have lit up the entire room. She was holding her clipboard - he wondered if she ever went anywhere without it - and noted something in it with her pen. “Good to see you again, Boone. I’m glad you recognize me. How are you feeling?”

“Cloudy.” He glanced back at the rain slicked windows.

“That would be the morphine.” Usanagi wrote down something else. “You’re not slurring, which is good, and you’re sitting upright… can you wiggle your toes for me?”

Boone did as she commanded, earning a hum of approval.

“Good. I was nervous for your spine. You’re lucky to be alive.” 

He stared numbly ahead. “Wasn’t a bullet to the head.” Across the years, he felt a sudden strange kinship with the Courier, understanding what it was to truly come back from the dead. Fever was terrible enough, but at least he’d been aware, conscious. He’d never experienced the endless dark - and judging by the characteristic summer thunderstorm, weeks of lost time.

“No, it wasn’t.” Usanagi murmured. “Nevertheless, you put us all to the test. Several hours of surgery on my part, and you’ll have to thank Arcade’s research for supplementing our antibiotics.”

A tinge of pink rose to Arcade’s cheeks. “Veronica had the presence of mind not to remove the claw.” He continued, hastily changing the subject from any praise of his actions. “I’m told she severed the whole finger with a boot knife.”

Usanagi continued. “The claw entered near your fifth thoracic vertebrae, angled upwards to miss your liver and exited just below your heart. An attempt to remove it in the field could have had dire consequences.”

Boone stared down at his bandaged chest. He remembered the claw with surprising clarity, and marvelled at his fortune. He’d have called it misfortune, once - now he had no idea how to repay Veronica.

“How... “ he began, swallowing in an effort to make speech easier. “That canyon was a few days’ journey from Peach Springs.”

Usanagi approached to check Boone over, peering at the bags of liquid feeding his IV lines and tapping various parts of his body. Arcade picked up on the explanation.

“The deathclaw that caught you was being hunted by the tribe we’ve been trying to learn about. Thanks to them the beasts are pretty rare in these parts. Luckily for you they had a healer with them and were happy enough to help after they were told where to find the body.” Arcade paled a little - he was present when they cleared out the Quarry Junction, ages past, and was keen to forget deathclaws ever existed after the fact. “It seems Christine and Veronica got more words out of them than we have after months - I hope it’s a good sign for the future. Anyways. The good doctor here had just arrived when you were hauled in, so you had more than a sawbones to do the delicate work.”

“We’re still not sure what precisely they did to make you stable.” Usanagi spoke once she’d made her last few notes and held her clipboard at her side, pen tucked neatly behind her ear. “But they kept you from bleeding out.”

He wondered if the woman he’d seen in his few seconds of consciousness was the healer they spoke of. “I’ve got a few people to thank.” Boone muttered, moving to swing his legs over the side of the bed. Arcade stopped him, pushing him back onto the mattress with ease. He fell back onto it, limbs jelly.

“You’re not going anywhere until we’re sure you’re not going to make things worse. It’d be a crime to rip your stitching.” Arcade advised, grabbing a pillow from one of the other beds. He sat it up at Boone’s back with the pillow already present, allowing him to recline comfortably. Boone wondered if the man’s sudden protectiveness was borne from guilt - it seemed he put himself to blame for Boone being injured in the first place.

“If there’s someone you’d like to speak to here, I can fetch them.” Usanagi added with a gentle smile.

“Veronica and Christine.” Boone knew he probably didn’t have to explain exactly who - beyond Arcade and Usanagi he knew no one else in the Followers camp.

“I’ll see if they’re back.” Usanagi nodded, then withdrew - leaving the two men alone once more.

They sat in silence, listening to the rain patter against the windows. Boone was tempted to return to sleep, but Arcade spoke again.

“You’re going to be on bedrest for a while, I think.” The last two words were sighed rather than spoken. “I figure you’d probably like something to do.”

“I’m pretty good at staring at walls.” 

Arcade stared at him, mild shock clear in his widened eyes. “Was that... was that a joke?”

That got Boone to chuckle - and earned a flare of pain in his chest for his trouble. “Yeah.” he answered around a wince. “I’m still bad at them, I guess.”

A startled laugh escaped Arcade’s lips, though he schooled his expression back into something more professional. “I think that was a good try. It’s a sign that your brain hasn’t turned to mush, at least. Humor requires some higher thought, you know.”

“Don’t think anyone’s used higher thought when it comes to me.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” Arcade’s smile returned. “Seriously, though - do you want me to bring you anything? We have a few books and magazines here. The radio gets reception from some of the old broadcasts, the playlists loop so you’ll have to change stations when you’re sick of them. I think we can squeeze a table in beside your bed-”

“I don’t read much.” Boone interrupted Arcade before his anxious chatter could go any further. “But… first time for everything, I guess.” The ache in his chest was beginning to bloom - he didn’t know if the vibration of his vocal cords was doing it or if the painkillers were just wearing off. It wasn’t pleasant, but he found he appreciated it - the pain cut through some of the fog, made him feel a little more like himself. “I’ll just be happy to walk again.”

“I think we’ll all be happy for that.” Arcade looked as if he’d meant to say something more, but thought better of it. He stood with a light groan - Boone could hear his spine crack when he straightened up, causing a light flush to spread across Arcade’s cheeks. “I’ll go see what I can dig up. Veronica and Christine-” A thought struck him, and he chuckled again. “You know, I don’t think anyone’s said their names apart since they came back. They’re inseparable. I’d call them the Santangelos, but that might be presumptive on my part.”

Boone blinked at him. Arcade cleared his throat.

“They’re out scouting. Christine’s set on working with us, and I can’t complain when it comes to having another experienced marksman. Usanagi’s cohort only brought two, but they came across more Legion remnants than usual on their way out here.”

“You can add me to the list.” Boone’s words took Arcade by surprise - he seemed to be making a habit of it. “If you’ll have me. Don’t know what else to do, and I figure I owe you.”

Arcade’s expression softened, and he gave Boone’s knee a gentle pat. “Nothing to be owed. If you’re still set on it when you’re feeling better, we’ll be happy to have you.” He snatched his hand away quickly enough, and tried to smooth out his wrinkled coat to no avail. “Anyways - what I meant to say is that Veronica and Christine might be a while. Are you going to be okay on your own?”

Boone nodded. “Might nap.”

“Good plan.” The other man ran his hand through his silvering hair to brush it back into something close to groomed, and made his way to the door. “There’ll be people poking in to check up on you, so don’t panic.”

“Not much I can do from here.”

It was Arcade’s turn to nod. It seemed to take him some effort to look away, but when he did his posture visibly relaxed.

Boone wondered what the Courier would make of it.

If Veronica was right, he had stories to tell.

\--

When he next awoke the rain had ceased. Orange light spilled in through the windows, silhouetting Veronica standing in front of them. She was fussing with one of the window latches, getting it open after a few moments of struggle.

“Big guy’s awake.” Came Christine’s voice from his right. Boone blinked the last of the sleep from his eyes just in time to see her set a tray of food in his lap. “Can you eat?”

“I’ll make vertibird noises with the spoon if you need help.” Veronica chirped, practically skipping over to his side. The newly opened window was a godsend, the scent of damp earth and growth flowing into the musty quarters, cool air kissing his forehead.

Boone didn’t answer at first. Before him was some sort of savory porridge made of wild grains and broth. He took the battered metal spoon on the tray in hand and found his grip stable, experimentally scooping a mouthful of the gruel into his mouth.

It was somewhat bland - the broth was a vegetable one - but after his first swallow he realized he was ravenous enough not to care. He started to shovel it into his mouth at speed, caring not for the vaguely disgusted expression on Christine’s face.

“No vertibird noises today, Ronnie.” she drawled, taking the tray from him when he was done and setting it on the table next to his bed. There was a radio on it along with a copy of _Milsurp Review_ and _Lad’s Life_. Arcade had come through for him.

Veronica sat at the foot of his bed while Christine took the chair. “How are you feeling?”

“People keep asking me that.” he grumbled. “Alive.”

Christine quirked a brow and cast her partner a look that read _I told you so._

Veronica rolled her eyes and huffed. “You’re the one that asked for us, I’m just trying to make conversation.”

It sanded the edges off of his mood. “I wanted to thank you. You didn’t have to drag me out of there. A lot of people who’d say you shouldn’t have.”

“You weren’t light.” Christine hummed, earning a playful slap on the knee from Veronica. Boone wondered at how much time had passed to make the woman so much more at ease, and shuddered to think of how long he’d been out.

“We had help.” Veronica added. “Did Arcade tell you about the tribals?”

Boone rubbed the back of his neck. “Sort of.” 

“They’re something, I’ll tell you that much.” Her tone was awed, nearly reverent. “They didn’t speak much, but they got you bandaged up and… well, less dead. I can see why the people up top are so obsessed with learning more about them. Although…” Veronica trailed off, a crease in her brow. “... nevermind.”

“What?” He straightened up - Veronica wasn’t usually hesitant to speak on anything, but she was looking at him like he was fragile.

“Just… you remember that belt buckle the Courier wore?”

It was silver, turquoise set in the middle of it like a sun, rays carved around it. The only reason he’d ever taken note of it was that it was one of few things the Courier treasured, and the only thing of luxury she seemed to own. “Yeah.”

“One of the guys in their group had something like it, and the healer’s necklace had the same sort of materials. You don’t think…”

Boone understood why she was hesitant to speak, now. The Courier’s past was a mystery even to herself. His own piece of the puzzle was unknown to all but him, a shameful mark - but this new revelation made his chest ache in a way that his wound had no blame for. “Doesn’t matter now.” The void of loss made itself known once again. Everything was too late - everything new he learned was useless. He had so many things to say, but the words were ash on his tongue. Words for the dead. He fell back against the pillows, his eyes downcast.

“I suspect it’ll be awhile before they talk to anyone again, anyways.” Christine interjected, her tone aloof and casual. She and Veronica exchanged another look. “You don’t avoid the Legion and every other monster out here without a good dose of paranoia when it comes to outsiders.”

He clung to the change of subject like it was a lifeline. “Arcade mentioned that Usanagi’s group came across Legion remnants.”

Veronica grimaced. “Yeah. They’re coming from the southeast.”

“My guess is there’s a few pockets holed up in the forest.” Christine continued. “It’s been long enough that they might be getting sick of it.”

The fire he thought would spark within him didn’t. His heart remained cold, anger absent. He was tired of killing, he realized - tired of hunting. “You think we’re in danger here?”

“Veronica can cave in a man’s ribcage if she’s got the equipment.” Christine shrugged. “I can turn a man to ash from a few hundred feet. Ronnie says you could kill one from a mile away. I think we can handle some strays.” A pause. “If you’re planning on staying.”

“Otherwise we’ll have to get some mercenaries from Kingman, and they’re not the trustworthy kind.” Veronica added. “We might still have to, if they’re more organized than we think. Right now they’re no worse than raiders.”

“Hmph.” he grunted. “If I’m ever able to walk again, I’d be happy to help.”

Veronica beamed. “You will.”

\--

She was right.

It took time - more than he’d have liked. His days were spent lying in bed listening to the radio or trying to make the letters on magazine pages stop moving long enough for him to make sense of the words. The only change of scenery was when Usanagi or Arcade would help him to the bathroom to piss. With each passing day, though, he grew stronger. He was able to make it to the church next door with an escort first, then to their gardens, then to Veronica’s workshop. Each new visit showed him how the outpost was growing - there were more new faces than when he’d first arrived, more old buildings occupied, wiring put up from building to building like a spiderweb. 

Soon he didn’t need escorts. Arcade brought him a walking stick, and Boone tried not to remember how he’d commandeered a spear in the Sierra Madre for the same purpose. He could make good progress with it, and when he’d made it to the spring on his own power without stumbling once he radiated with pride. Boone splashed the cool water on his face and felt a strange sense of rebirth.

Usanagi told him he had his pick of places to sleep. He forewent the old houses and settled into a small metal camp trailer not far from Veronica’s workshop. With help on her part she managed to rig power back to it, and he fell asleep watching the fan in the roof spin. 

His stitches were removed, and he stared down at the gnarled and raised scar at the center of his chest. Boone shaved soon after, but paused at his mustache. He looked like a Ranger with it, but more importantly didn’t look like himself - the man from _before_. He left it, and left a few inches of hair on his head while he was at it. 

A few strands of grey caught the light. He supposed it was stress. He was young still, on the edge of thirty, but he felt at least a decade older. With a start he realized he was starting to look like his father.

Time made fools of everyone, he supposed. Him most of all.

The day after, he asked Christine if he could accompany her the next time she went on patrol. She agreed.

Boone was tired of hunting - but protecting was something he could get used to.


	15. Chapter 15

The thing about time was that if you didn’t pay attention to it, it had a habit of slipping through your fingers.

It was as if he’d blinked, and three months had passed. Boone kept his facial hair - Arcade had remarked that it made him look older, and that was all the approval he needed. The high heat of summer faded to the more comfortable temperatures of early fall, and he gave thanks for it.

Patrols with Christine were relatively uneventful. After they’d dealt with the first few scattered groups of Legion remnants (little more than raiders, as she’d said) they didn’t receive any more reports of lingering men dressed in fading crimson along the road to Kingman. 

The scant resistance offered by their foes didn’t stop Veronica from throwing her arms about Christine with every return they made, each separation seemingly unbearable. Boone quickly learned to make himself scarce shortly after arriving back in Peach Springs - reunions weren’t a subject he could yet shoulder. 

It didn’t stop until Veronica had announced she’d proposed to Christine, and Christine was all too happy to accept. Boone caught a knowing grin on Arcade’s face at the opposite end of the table they dined at. He felt an odd surge of dread, but kept a smile on his features and offered his own gruff congratulations.

They were married by a waterfall, as Veronica had murmured back in the Sierra Madre. It perhaps wasn’t quite what they’d imagined - a little stream of water pouring down the red rock into the river below - but it didn’t seem to matter. The two women beamed, Veronica in a dress of white with a simple veil (gifted by Usanagi, from where Boone did not know), Christine in a simple white blouse and baby blue skirt. They shone in the sunlight, quivering with shared excitement as they exchanged their vows before the small gathering of Followers.

The dread returned. While the fall sun was weak, in that moment it felt as strong as midsummer, beating down upon him. It was harder to smile, nausea striking him - and he realized it was because he’d seen their expressions before, though worn on a different face.

Hope. Contentment. Safety. The idea that all the pain had come to an end and that only good things awaited. Eagerness to begin a new chapter. It was an expression he must have worn too, once, mirrored back at him by Carla so many years ago.

Boone clasped his hands behind his back and gripped his wrists hard enough to leave bruises, putting on a brave smile while Veronica tossed her bouquet of wildflowers and laughed as researchers made a display of battling for it. They gathered in the church after, research tables pushed aside to leave room for dancing, a few cleared off to host food and drink.

He lingered by the food and drink, trying to drown his dread with lukewarm beer. Christine insisted he abandon his shades, and so he had. Boone looked more put together than he had in years, hair brushed back and stubble trimmed, clothes the cleanest ones he owned. It didn’t go unnoticed.

A woman he didn’t recognize walked up to the drink table, breathless from dancing. The radio roared behind, Veronica’s gleeful cackle audible when _Butcher Pete_ made it to the playlist. Boone paid the newcomer no notice before she cleared her throat.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.” she observed. Her hair was red as the rocky canyons, a splash of freckles across her nose and cheeks. The woman reminded him of Cass - and her next words only solidified the association in his mind. “A shame. We’ve got a shortage of handsome men here. You want to dance?”

It took him a few seconds to process what she’d said to him. When he finally connected the dots - and the purposeful look in her eye - a sudden surge of fear gripped him. Any efforts he’d made to quell his nerves were undone in an instant, and his grip tightened on his beer. “I don’t dance.”

“I’m a good teacher.” The woman purred, mistaking his discomfort for a lack of confidence. “They’re sending me back out west next week, and I want to have a bit of fun before I’m stuck on the road again.”

She hadn’t asked his name, and he wasn’t interested in hers. Boone kept to himself, his circle of friends in Peach Springs counted on one hand. He was about to flee the building before one such friend came to save him.

Arcade approached at speed, long legs covering considerable ground with each stride. He elbowed between the woman and Boone, reaching for a shot of scotch and swinging it down in one swift movement. He paused, considering, and then downed another before at last turning to face Boone. He looked considerably flustered - Boone recalled that the man never much liked crowds, and wondered if he, too, had been asked to dance.

Though the woman hadn’t recognized Boone, it was clear by her shifting expression that she recognized Arcade. She looked as if she’d come to a sudden understanding - shoulders slumping, somewhat crestfallen. “Oh. I’m sorry.” she apologized sheepishly, stepping away from the two men. She opened her mouth to say something more, but thought better of it and quickly made her way back to the dancefloor.

“What was that about?” Arcade asked, coughing from the burn left by the old scotch.

“She wanted to dance.” Boone shrugged. “I told her I don’t.”

“I thought the refreshment table was supposed to be safe.” Arcade muttered, running his hand through his hair. “If this wasn’t Veronica’s reception, I’d be back at my office.”

Boone grunted in agreement. There was a shriek from the dance floor, and his whole body flinched - only to see that Christine had lifted up Veronica and was balancing her on her hands in the air. Veronica stretched out her arms, and looked like a bird soaring over the crowd. She caught sight of Arcade and Boone, tried to wave, and almost pitched Christine off balance. The two tumbled back down to the floor in a pile of skirts and laughter.

He looked away to find Arcade peering at him with a sad look in his eye. “You alright?”

“Not a fan of weddings.” he deflected, tipping back his beer and draining it. Taking a leaf from Arcade’s book, he went for the scotch.

“Yeah. I suppose not.” Arcade murmured. 

They shared a comfortable silence after Boone downed his own pair of shots, the two of them swaying slightly as they stood awkwardly by the refreshment table. The drunkenness was welcome, took some of the edge off. He felt his worries quiet.

Veronica somehow managed to slip out of the crowd, bounding up to the two of them. Her face was flushed, strands of hair falling loose from the elegant style it was coiffed into. It didn’t stop her from grabbing hold of Arcade and Boone’s wrists and tugging them back with her.

“I’m going to have to play my trump card.” she said, loudly enough to be heard over the radio and silencing any hasty protests the two men attempted. “You’re going to dance at least _once_ at my wedding.”

Christine waited at the center of the dance floor - her smile was slightly more muted than Veronica’s, but her eyes gleamed every time she set eyes on her. “You found them!” she called over.

Boone found himself nudged in Christine’s direction, while Veronica took Arcade for her dance partner. It was due to their height, he realized - Arcade had at least a foot and a half on Christine.

“It’s not sharpshooting.” Christine apologized, placing Boone’s hand chastely on her shoulder and waist. It reminded him of home - gatherings out west, forever ago, his older sisters laughing and jeering as he tripped over their feet. She did not jeer or tease, as they began to dance to a jazzy instrumental piece, and he was grateful for it. 

“The last person I danced with was the Courier.” he blurted out, unbidden - unable to keep the thought from his lips. The Tops, a crowd as joyful as this one, and the alcohol buzzing in his veins - the memory was as sharp as ever. 

A ghost of sadness crossed Christine’s features, and he instantly regretted speaking. “Do you want to stop?”

“No.” Boone spoke as hastily as before, trying his hardest for a smile and landing somewhere between a grin and a wince. “Shouldn’t talk about sad things on your wedding day.”

“Happiness and sadness are two sides of the same coin.” Christine replied, feet moving lightly and quickly, his own blundering to keep up. He glimpsed Arcade conducting himself admirably out of the corner of his eye, Veronica’s skirts billowing out as he spun her. Her laughter was constant.

“Are you happy?” Boone blamed the alcohol for his inability to hold his tongue.

His dance partner took no offense. “More than I ever thought I could be.” she answered, smile soft. “But part of it doesn’t feel right - I’ve spent so long feeling miserable, now that I have this…”

“You’re afraid of losing it.” he finished for her. There was a shared understanding between them.

Christine nodded. “I can’t focus on that, though.” she continued. “No matter what happens, I want the moments I have to be happy ones. Does that make sense?”

He blinked at her, and abruptly tripped over his own feet. Christine was strong enough to keep him upright. It startled a laugh out of him, and soon she joined him.

Boone was released with the song’s end, and found that perhaps he enjoyed dancing after all. He took a turn with Usanagi while her guard, Leah, was grabbing them more drinks. Arcade took his arm after that, slurring something about teaching him how to dance properly. Boone learned only a little, for another man stepped up to Arcade shortly after and offered his hand.

Eventually Boone found himself back alone at the refreshment table. The hour was late, the landscape beyond the church windows blanketed in darkness. The crowd was thoroughly drunk now, those who abstained starting to trickle off to their beds. He decided he’d done his part, grabbing a couple of beers to enjoy in his camper on his way out.

Veronica and Christine were still dancing, lipstick smudging each of their faces.

\--

He was dealing with a hangover when a knock came on his door. Boone threw his arm out from his bed to unlock it, reserving a scowl for whoever disturbed his agonized slumber to open it.

Sunlight spilled into the camper, and he squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Sorry.” It was Arcade - sounding in about the same shape as Boone was. He cracked an eye open. The man was wearing his clothes from the night before, though his collar was turned up. It was an old trick Boone knew well, and sure enough he could just faintly make out a red mark peeking over the edge.

Good for him.

“What time s’it?” Boone mumbled, gaze shifting to the bottles of water Arcade held in hand. He was offered one, and took it gratefully.

“Ten in the morning.” Arcade answered miserably. “Don’t… don’t let me drink that much again, if it’s ever in your control.”

“You look like you had a good time.” 

The look he received was one of sheer panic. “Is it that obvious? I just came out of a meeting-”

“No one would blame you.” Boone replied, twisting the cap off of his water and sipping at it carefully. “Everyone was doing the same thing, I think..”

Absently he recalled the red-haired woman of the night before, and wondered if he too would be sporting hickies had he taken her up on her offer. That thought led to a labyrinth he wasn’t willing to address in his current state.

His words appeared to soothe Arcade by some degree, at least. “I guess so. Anyways, it’s why I’m here.”

Boone grunted, and he took it as an invitation to continue.

“We made contact with the tribe.” 

That got him to sit upright, ignoring the rush of dizziness and nausea that came with it. “They have a name?”

“They call themselves the Children. We don’t know why yet, since we haven’t opened up talks properly. They’ve asked us to do them a favor first. Proof that we’re trustworthy, I guess.”

“Something I can help with?”

Arcade nodded. “There’s a forest to the southeast, an old national park. They used to operate there before the Legion came, and sent out a scout recently to see if the coast is clear. Their scout didn’t return.”

Boone took a long sip from his water, finding his roiling stomach calmed by it. “So I’m going to look for their scout.”

“His name’s Walker.” Arcade moved to rest his hand against the camper’s exterior, only to snatch it away with a hiss on contact. 

Boone couldn’t help but smirk. “It gets hot in the sun.”

“I can see that.” A sigh. “Anyways. It’s not just you going after the scout. They’re sending me with you.”

That was a puzzling discovery. His smirk evaporated, replaced by a frown. “Don’t you have research to do?”

“That’s what I said.” Arcade groaned in exasperation. “The brass mentioned something about cataloging the trees, but I don’t buy it. I’m pretty sure they’re throwing me at the problem because I’m the only one who can keep tabs on you who isn’t… ah… indisposed.”

Christine and Veronica. It made sense. “How long’s their honeymoon?”

“Longer than the brass is willing to wait. Longer than I’m willing to wait, honestly - if Walker’s still alive he’s probably in trouble, which means time is of the essence.”

Arcade’s idealism hadn’t been blunted by time. Boone swung his legs over the side of his bed, grasping for his sunglasses. “When are we heading out?”

“As soon as we pack. The sooner we get this done, the better. It’ll be quite a hike.” he warned. “Maybe a week, maybe more.”

That drew forth another groan. “Guess I should prepare for rain, just in case.” The year was getting late - and while he was happy that he didn’t have to worry about a trip in midsummer’s baking heat it was preferable to getting caught in a flash flood in one of the desert’s many canyons. The Mojave was moody, whether in Nevada or Arizona.

“Meet you by the church at noon?”

Boone nodded. Arcade kicked the camper door shut, and he sat in the dim morning gloom once more.

\--

True to his word, he found Arcade waiting by the church as the sun reached its peak in the sky, a bulging pack at his feet. Christine and Veronica leaned up against the peeling white siding looking all too pleased with themselves.

“It’s about time someone got Arcade out of his office.” Veronica teased as Boone approached, a knapsack of his own weighing heavily on his shoulders next to his hunting rifle.

“I’m going to be sunburnt for years.” Arcade replied, his mouth set in a thin line of resignation. 

“You two going to be alright?” Christine glanced at the laser pistol strapped to Arcade’s hip.

“Aside from molting like a gecko, I think so.”

Veronica grinned. “Arcade, that was practically folksy.”

“Country living’s rubbing off on me.”

“We should get going.” Boone interjected, causing the other three to look somewhat crestfallen. Arcade wrung his hands, looking very much like he didn’t want to go despite his insistence on time being of the essence. Boone couldn’t exactly blame him - travelling on a hangover was unpleasant at the best of times, let alone travelling into territory roamed by Legion remnants. He just hoped not to relive the last journey he took. The scar on his chest ached from the memory.

“You’re right.” Arcade took a steadying breath. “I’ll see you two later.”

“I’ll get the aloe ready for when you’re back.” Veronica teased, though there was a note of concern in her voice.

Goodbyes were difficult for all of them. Boone simply dipped his head in farewell - knowing any words could be the last heard made choosing them too difficult for his taste.

\--

Unlike Veronica, Arcade didn’t chatter much as the two men made their way eastward down the cracked asphalt remains of Route 66. Boone found himself missing the conversation - unlike his patrols with Christine, there was nothing to look out for to keep his mind occupied. The nearest hills were miles away, any foe that approached them would be seen long before they were in danger. 

It was miserable going. Boone longed to drink deeply from his canteen, to try and drown his hangover, but he had no idea when they’d reach the next water source. Arcade squinted up at the sun from beneath the brim of his hat resentfully, likely feeling the same pain. Unlike Boone, however, Arcade’s steps were quick and purposeful, a focused march. Boone plodded along behind him, not nearly so driven.

Neither of them spoke until they made camp for the evening. After swallowing a mouthful of InstaMash, Arcade made his first observation.

“That was the furthest I’ve walked in a year.”

Boone grunted, feeling somewhat more capable of speech now that he had some food in his belly and a tin mug of herbal tea in his hands.

“Guess you can’t say the same.” Arcade added. His normally coiffed hair was a mess, stuck under a hat all day. “You know, I think I might actually have missed it.”

“Sounds like it’s your turn to have heat exhaustion.” Boone said between sips from his mug.

“Since when are you a doctor?” Arcade finished his InstaMash and laid down on his bedroll, staring up at the twilight sky. “I mean it, though. For all the progress I’ve made in research, there’s a tangibility about travelling that you can’t really replace. There’s a certain kind of satisfaction in being able to see your progress, the miles travelled, the new sights seen. And..” He glanced over at Boone momentarily, cautious. “... it reminds me of old times.”

Arcade was feeling out his reaction, Boone realized. To his own surprise, he found that the subject of the past didn’t sting nearly so much as he’d expected. “Yeah.” he agreed, glancing up at the stars twinkling in the darkening sky. “In a good way.”

A warm breeze ruffled his hair. Arcade kicked his boots off. “You know.” he murmured, tone suddenly carrying with it more weight than expected. “The stars are all suns, like ours. Some are even larger and hotter - hundreds, thousands of times. But there’s enough distance that we only see them as little dots in the sky.”

He wasn’t speaking of the stars. The understanding struck Boone, and he drained the rest of his mug. 

Arcade continued. “With enough space even the brightest sun can become something you can look at. Maybe not something you can enjoy, but…”

“Something you can bear.” Boone finished, setting his rifle in his lap to take watch. “... thanks, Arcade.”

“I’m glad you’re with us, Boone.” There was a pause, and Arcade hastily removed his glasses, setting them carefully atop his pack before rolling over. 

Boone stared at his back for a few moments, then turned his eyes back to the stars.

Was distance what the Courier sought?


End file.
